#valarr

The sun had no right to be shining.

Valarr Targaryen knew this with every fiber of his being, the certainty of it settled deep in his bones as he lay sprawled across the vast, empty expanse of his marriage bed. Outside the windows of Maegor's Holdfast, the morning light spilled across Blackwater Bay in a display of golden indifference, painting the room in cheerful hues that made him want to scream.

It had been four days.

Four days since his wife—his sun, his moon, his very reason for drawing breath—had climbed into a wheelhouse and rolled away from him, bound for whatever minor keep happened to be housing her brother and his excessively fertile wife. A daughter. They had produced a daughter, and apparently this was cause for such celebration that Y/N simply had to attend.

He understood this, theoretically. In the same way one understood that the sun would eventually set or that winter would someday come. He understood that sisters loved brothers and that new nieces were supposedly wonderful creatures worth traveling for. He understood all of this with his mind, which was a traitorous organ that had clearly never been in love.

His heart, however—his poor, neglected, Y/N-less heart—understood nothing except that she was gone.

Valarr rolled onto his stomach and pressed his face into her pillow.

It still smelled like her.

He had forbidden the servants from changing the linens. They had looked at him strangely, which was absurd. Who wouldn't want to preserve the last traces of their wife's scent? The faint floral notes of whatever oil she used in her hair, the warm sweetness that was simply her, the way the fabric seemed to hold the memory of her cheek against it—

A knock at the door.

"Go away," he said into the pillow.

"Your Grace, the King requests your presence at the small council meeting." It was his squire, a boy of twelve who sounded far too cheerful for someone whose master was clearly in mourning.

"I'm ill."

"You said that yesterday, Your Grace. And the day before."

"And I remain ill. It's a persistent illness. Very serious. Possibly fatal."

A pause. "Should I fetch a maester, Your Grace?"

Valarr considered this. A maester would poke at him and ask questions and inevitably conclude that he was suffering from nothing more than a severe case of missing his wife. Which was true, but also humiliating to have spoken aloud by a man in grey robes.

"No. Tell my grandfather I am... indisposed. With grief."

"Grief, Your Grace?"

"My wife is gone." He said this with such profound tragedy that the boy actually went silent for a moment.

"Ah. Yes. For... four days now, isn't it, Your Grace?"

"Four days, seventeen hours, and—" He squinted at the window, trying to gauge the sun's position. "Approximately six and a half hours. Not that I'm counting."

"Of course not, Your Grace."

"The counting would imply that I have nothing better to do than track her absence, which I don't—because she took my purpose in life with her when she left."

Another pause. Valarr imagined the boy standing in the corridor, shifting from foot to foot, wondering if the prince had finally lost his mind. He probably had. It didn't matter.

"Shall I bring you breakfast, Your Grace?"

"No."

"Lunch?"

"I said no."

"Dinner? Perhaps some wine? Bread? A boar? Anything at all?"

Valarr lifted his head just enough to glare at the door. "Do I sound hungry to you? Does a man whose heart has been ripped from his chest and carried away to some distant keep where he cannot reach it sound like he wants bread?"

The boy wisely retreated.

Alone again, Valarr flopped back onto the pillow and resumed his vigil of misery.

---

An hour later—or perhaps three; time had lost all meaning—he found himself in his chambers, seated at the desk where he had once, in a former life, attended to correspondence and other tedious duties. Now it served a far more important purpose.

He opened the locket.

It was a beautiful thing, commissioned three days ago from a goldsmith who had clearly thought him mad but was wise enough not to say so. The outside was simple enough, a smooth disc of gold that fit perfectly in his palm. But inside, nestled against the fine enamel work that had cost him a small fortune and the goldsmith's entire week, was her face.

Her face.

The painter had captured her perfectly—the curve of her smile, the warmth in her eyes, the way one eyebrow always lifted slightly when she was about to tease him. Valarr had described every detail with the precision of a maester cataloging a rare specimen, and the man had somehow managed to translate those fevered descriptions into art.

He kissed it.

Then he kissed it again.

Then he held it against his chest and stared at the wall, imagining that she was here, that she was laughing at him for being so dramatic, that she would wrap her arms around his neck and press her forehead to his and tell him that four days apart was nothing, that he was being ridiculous, that she loved him anyway.

He would take that. He would take her calling him ridiculous a thousand times over if it meant having her here.

The door opened.

"I told you I don't want—"

"Brother." It was Matarys, his younger brother, standing in the doorway with an expression of unholy amusement. "Still alive, I see. The servants were placing bets."

"Get out."

"I've come to save you from yourself." Matarys strode in as if he owned the place, flinging himself onto a chair with the careless grace of someone who had never known true suffering. "Four days, Valarr. Four. She'll be back in another fortnight, at most."

"A fortnight?" Valarr sat up so fast the locket swung wildly on its chain. "You said a sennight yesterday."

"I was being optimistic. Babies are unpredictable. Births take time. Celebrations take longer. You're looking at ten more days, minimum."

Ten more days.

Ten more days without her laugh, without her hand in his, without the way she hummed while she brushed her hair at night, without—

"I'm going to die," he said flatly. "I'm going to expire from lack of her, and they'll find my body here, clutching this locket, and the maesters will write treatises about it. 'The First Recorded Case of Death by Wife-Absence.' They'll name it after me. Valarr's Malady."

Matarys snorted. "You're pathetic."

"I'm devoted. There's a difference."

"There really isn't." His brother leaned forward, expression shifting to something almost like concern. "Valarr, listen to me. You need to do something. Anything. You haven't left these chambers in days—"

"I left yesterday."

"To stand on the battlements and stare at the road south for three hours. That doesn't count."

"It counted to me."

Matarys pinched the bridge of his nose. "Father is worried. Grandfather is worried. Even Aerion looked mildly concerned, and he's usually too busy practicing his cruel smile to care about anyone's wellbeing. You're making a spectacle of yourself."

"Let them watch." Valarr touched the locket again, tracing the outline of her painted smile. "She is my wife. I love her. I am not ashamed to miss her."

"No one expects you not to miss her. We expect you to miss her like a normal person. Go to council meetings. Eat food. Bathe, for the love of all the gods, you're starting to smell like a stabled horse."

Valarr sniffed his own armpit. It was... not pleasant. But that was beside the point.

"The small council can function without me. Food is unnecessary without her to share it. And bathing—" He paused, considering. "Would it be strange if I used her soaps?"

"Yes."

"They smell like her."

"I know. That's why it would be strange."

Valarr disagreed fundamentally with this assessment, but he was too tired to argue. He slumped back against the pillows, pulling the locket out to gaze at it once more. Her eyes. Her smile. The little mole near her left eyebrow that he kissed every morning without fail.

"She's so beautiful," he murmured.

"We know. You tell us constantly."

"Do you think she's thinking of me? Right now, at this moment? Do you think she misses me too?"

Matarys stood abruptly. "I'm leaving. I came to help, but I find I have no stomach for watching my brother dissolve into a puddle of sentiment. If you need me, don't find me."

The door closed behind him.

Valarr hardly noticed. He was too busy imagining her in some distant keep, holding her new niece, perhaps glancing toward the window and thinking of him. Perhaps touching her chest where a matching locket—because of course he'd had two made, one for each of them, so she could look at his face too—rested against her heart.

He hoped she was looking at it.

He hoped she missed him even half as much as he missed her.

Another knock.

"What?"

A servant entered, this one older and wiser to his moods. She carried a tray with bread and cheese and a cup of wine, which she set on the table without comment.

"Your Grace," she said, her tone carefully neutral. "The Princess Y/N's wheelhouse was spotted on the Rosby road an hour ago. Moving south. Away from the city."

Valarr's heart plummeted through the floor.

"Away?" He sat up, clutching the locket like a talisman. "Why would she be moving away? She's supposed to be moving toward me. The world is meant to bring her closer, not farther. That's the natural order of things."

"The messenger said the princess decided to accompany her brother's family part of the way to their next destination. She'll be delayed by another few days."

Another few days.

He was going to perish. Truly and completely. They would find him dead of yearning, his cold fingers still wrapped around her painted smile, and on his lips would be her name, and the singers would compose ballads about his devotion, and—

The servant was still there, watching him with an expression that might have been pity.

"Leave the bread," he said weakly.

She left.

Valarr stared at the tray. The bread looked dry. The cheese looked plain. The wine looked like the kind that would make him maudlin rather than numb, and he was already so deep in maudlin that any further descent would require ropes and a guide.

He reached for the locket again.

Four more days. Possibly five. Possibly a whole sennight of additional Y/N-less existence stretching before him like an endless grey sea.

He could do this.

He could survive.

He had her locket. He had her pillow. He had the memory of her voice, which he replayed in his mind constantly, and the way she laughed, which he conjured up whenever the silence grew too loud.

He would be fine.

He would be fine.

---

He was not fine.

Three hours later, he had migrated to her solar, where he sat surrounded by her things—her books, her embroidery, her little pots of color for painting, her shawl still draped over the back of her chair. He held the shawl in his lap, stroking the soft wool, breathing in the fading scent of her.

"Y/N," he whispered to the empty room. "Y/N, Y/N, Y/N."

It helped, somehow. Saying her name. Keeping her present through sheer force of vocalization.

"You have to come back soon," he continued, addressing the shawl. "I'm running out of things to do. I've stared at the locket so much I might have worn a hole through the enamel. I've read every letter you ever wrote me—twice. I've counted the floorboards in our bedchamber. There are forty-seven. Did you know that? I didn't know that. I know it now."

The shawl offered no response.

"I talked to your pillow this morning. Told it about my day. Which was nothing, because you weren't here, but I described the nothing in detail. The pillow was a good listener. Better than Matarys, certainly."

He sighed, slumping lower in the chair.

"Do you remember our wedding? Of course you do. But do you remember how I couldn't stop staring at you? How they had to nudge me to say my vows because I was too busy looking at your face? The septon thought I was nervous. I wasn't nervous. I was just—you were so beautiful. You're always so beautiful. I'm not sure you understand how beautiful you are. I should tell you more often. I'll tell you every day when you come back. Every single day. Multiple times a day. You'll get tired of hearing it."

He paused, considering.

"No, you won't. You love me. You think I'm wonderful. You tell me that all the time, and I never get tired of it, so why would you get tired of—"

A knock. He was going to have words with whoever kept interrupting his mourning.

"Your Grace?" A different servant, this one young and nervous. "There's a raven. From the princess."

Valarr was on his feet before the sentence finished, crossing the room in three strides and snatching the tiny scroll from the servant's hand. He unrolled it with shaking fingers, devouring the words:

My love,

My good sister is recovered and the babe is healthy and beautiful. They have named her Valerya, after you. (I may have suggested it.) We will be delayed another few days as we travel with them to—

He stopped reading.

They had named the baby after him.

A tiny girl, carrying a piece of his name. Because his wife had suggested it. Because his wife thought of him even while holding a newborn, even while surrounded by her own kin, even while separated by miles and miles of road.

He read the sentence again.

They have named her Valerya, after you.

"Your Grace?" The servant was still there, hovering uncertainly. "Is all well?"

Valarr looked up, and for the first time in four days, he smiled.

"All is well," he said. "All is very well. Tell the kitchens to prepare a feast. Tell my brother I'll be at council tomorrow. Tell my grandfather I've recovered from my illness."

The servant blinked. "You have, Your Grace?"

"I have." He pressed the letter to his chest, right over his heart, where the locket rested against his skin. "My wife has sent word. I am cured."

---

That night, he wrote her a letter.

It was very long. It contained approximately seventeen declarations of love, twelve descriptions of how much he missed her, three jokes that she probably wouldn't find funny but he hoped she would anyway, and a detailed account of his conversation with her pillow.

He did not mention the forty-seven floorboards. That seemed excessive even for him.

At the end, just before sealing it with wax, he added a postscript:

I have commissioned a third locket. This one will have two paintings—one of you, one of me—side by side. So that when I look at you, I can also imagine you looking at me, and we can be looking at each other even when we're apart. I know it's not the same as having you here. But it's something.

Come home soon.

Your devoted husband,

Valarr

P.S. If you see this baby Valerya, tell her her uncle loves her already. Not as much as I love you. Nothing could be that much. But a respectable amount for a niece.

He sent it with the fastest raven in the rookery, then climbed into bed—her side, always her side now—and fell asleep with the locket pressed to his lips and her name on his tongue.

Five more days.

He could survive five more days.

Probably.

---

Author's Note:

Normalize men being this pathetic about their wives. The dragons may be gone, but dramatic devotion should not be.

The knock came at the same hour it always did.

Three sharp raps against the iron-banded door of your chamber. Not loud enough to wake the dead, but loud enough to wake you. The rhythm was burned into your bones now, two quick strikes, a pause, then a final blow that seemed to reverberate through the cold stone walls like a death knell. It was the knock of a man who took no pleasure in his task but performed it with the grim efficiency of one who had long ago learned not to question the orders he was given.

Ser Alan of the Kingsguard. A broad shouldered Reachman with a face like weathered granite and eyes that had seen too many horrors to be surprised by anything anymore. He had been assigned to you the day you arrived at the Red Keep, a silent shadow who followed you everywhere and nowhere, appearing only when you were summoned to your husband's chambers or when you attempted to wander somewhere you were not permitted to go.

You were not asleep. You never truly slept anymore, not since the first night they had dragged you from your bed at this same wretched hour. Now you simply lay in the darkness, your violet eyes fixed on the embroidered canopy above you, counting the silver threads that formed the three headed dragon of House Targaryen. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. You had counted them a thousand times. You knew every stitch, every knot, every place where the thread had worn thin from age and neglect. The dragon's ruby eyes seemed to watch you in the darkness, patient and eternal, waiting for you to break.

The door opened without your leave. It always did.

"His Grace requires your presence, my lady."

Ser Alan's voice was flat, carefully neutral, stripped of anything that might be interpreted as either sympathy or satisfaction. He stood in the doorway like a statue come to life, his white enameled armor gleaming faintly in the light of the single candle that burned on your bedside table. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, not in threat, but in habit. A Kingsguard was never truly at ease, even in the bedchamber of a traitor's daughter.

He did not look at you directly. None of them did. The servants, the guards, the ladies in waiting who had been assigned to attend you, they all treated you as if you were made of smoke and shadow, something that existed on the edges of their vision but could not be acknowledged without risking contamination. You were a Blackfyre. The blood of Daemon Blackfyre ran in your veins, the blood of rebels and usurpers and men who had dared to challenge the rightful rule of House Targaryen. Looking at you too long might be mistaken for sympathy, and sympathy for a Blackfyre was treason.

You had learned that lesson within your first week in the Red Keep, when a young kitchen maid had smiled at you in the corridor and offered you a warm roll fresh from the ovens. The girl had been dismissed the next day, sent back to her village with a black mark on her name and a warning never to seek employment in King's Landing again. You had not seen her go. You had only heard the whispers, carried to you by Lady Jeyne with a smile that did not reach her cold gray eyes.

"It seems some servants forget their place. A shame. She seemed a sweet girl."

The message had been clear: kindness to the Blackfyre was a crime, and crimes were punished.

You rose from the bed. The stone floor was cold beneath your bare feet, the spring chill seeping through the mortar despite the thin rushes scattered across the flagstones. The chamber was always cold. The servants who tended the fires in the royal apartments seemed to forget that this room existed, or perhaps they remembered all too well and chose to let the flames die out of quiet, spiteful neglect. The single candle on your bedside table guttered and smoked, casting long shadows that danced across the bare stone walls like specters at a feast.

You had been given this chamber on your wedding night. You had been naively grateful then. "Your own space," Valarr had said, his mismatched eyes warm with false consideration. "Every woman deserves a refuge. Somewhere she can be alone with her thoughts, away from the demands of court and husband. I would never deny you that."

A refuge. That was what he had called it. But there was no refuge in this cold, barren room with its bare walls and its threadbare tapestries and its single window that looked out over the black waters of the Blackwater Rush. There was only silence. Only the slow, grinding erosion of everything you had been before the war, before the surrender, before they had stripped you of your name and your family and your future and dressed you in Targaryen red.

You had not bothered with a robe. The first night, you had wrapped yourself in a heavy cloak, clutching it around your shoulders like armor as Ser Alan led you through the darkened corridors. When you had arrived in Valarr's chambers, he had looked at you with that gentle, puzzled expression he wore so well and said, "Why do you hide yourself, sweet wife? You are the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms. The blood of Old Valyria flows in your veins. You should be proud of what you are."

He had taken the cloak from your shoulders himself, his fingers brushing against your skin with deliberate, lingering softness. He had folded it carefully and set it aside, and you had never seen it again. The next night, you had worn a different robe. The same thing had happened. By the third night, you had understood the lesson he was teaching you.

You will come to me as you are. You will hide nothing. You belong to me, and I will see all of you.

So now you wore only your shift. Thin linen, pale cream in color, cut low enough to show the elegant soft swell of your breasts. It had been laid out for you by one of your ladies in waiting, Lady Alia, you thought, though it might have been Lady Mariene; they all blurred together in your mind, a procession of cold faces and colder eyes.

The shift was too fine for a prisoner, too revealing for a proper lady. It was a garment designed to display you, to emphasize every curve and hollow of your body, to remind you that you were an object to be looked at and touched and possessed.

And you hated it. You hated your beauty because it was the reason you were here, in this cold room, in this cold castle, married to a man who looked at you like you were a prize he had won in battle. If you had been plain, if you had been ordinary, perhaps they would have sent you to the Silent Sisters, like your sisters had been, or allowed you to join your brothers at the Wall. But you were beautiful, and your beauty was Valyrian, and Valarr Targaryen wanted to possess it.

You followed Ser Alan through the corridors of Maegor's Holdfast. The hour of the wolf, they called this time. The torches burned low in their iron sconces, their flames reduced to guttering embers that cast more shadow than light. The stone walls were slick with condensation, moisture beading on the ancient masonry like sweat on a dying man's brow.

The Red Keep was never truly silent. Even at this hour, there were sounds, the distant tread of guards on the battlements, the scurrying of rats in the walls, the mournful cry of gulls wheeling over the Blackwater. But the silence between those sounds was vast and empty, a yawning chasm that seemed to swallow everything it touched. You walked through it like a ghost, your bare feet making no sound on the cold stone, your breath forming small clouds in the chill air. The thin linen of your shift did nothing to ward off the cold, and you could feel your nipples hardening beneath the fabric, could feel the gooseflesh rising on your arms and thighs. By the time you reached the Prince's chambers, you would be shivering, your body betraying your vulnerability to him before you ever spoke a word.

You knew the way by heart now. Down the winding stair from your tower chamber, past the door to the servants' quarters where you sometimes heard muffled laughter that fell silent the moment you drew near.

At the end of the passage, a heavy oak door bound with iron bands marked the entrance to the Prince's private chambers. Two more Kingsguard stood on either side, Ser Roland Crakehall and Ser Gwayne Gaunt, their white cloaks hanging still in the motionless air, their faces hidden behind the gleaming visors of their helms. They did not acknowledge you as you passed.

Ser Alan pushed open the door and stepped aside, his duty discharged. His eyes met yours for the briefest moment, a flicker of something that might have been pity, quickly suppressed, and then he was gone, melting back into the shadows of the corridor like a wraith.

You crossed the threshold alone, as you always did. The warmth hit you first.

It was like stepping from a frozen wasteland into the heart of a dragon's lair. A great fire roared in the stone hearth, flames leaping high and golden, filling the room with a heat that seemed to seep into your bones and thaw the chill that had settled there during the long, cold walk. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and smoke and something sweet and faintly musky, like the perfume of night blooming flowers mingled with the clean, sharp scent of male skin. It was the scent of him, you realized. The scent of Valarr Targaryen, embedded in every tapestry and cushion and fur, saturating the very air you breathed.

The Prince's chambers were vast, easily four times the size of your own barren room. The furniture was dark and heavy, carved from exotic woods that had been imported from the Summer Isles and the forests of Qohor at unimaginable expense.

And there, in a high backed chair before the fire, sat your husband.

Valarr Targaryen did not look up when you entered. He was reading a leather bound book that lay open in his lap, its pages yellowed with age and covered in the spidery script of some long dead maester. The firelight played across his features, highlighting the sharp planes of his face, the strong line of his jaw, the slight furrow of concentration between his brows. He was dressed in a robe of black silk embroidered with red dragons, loosely tied at the waist, revealing a glimpse of his chest, lean and muscled, with a dusting of dark hair that matched the short cropped locks on his head.

He did not look like a dragon. That was the first thought that had crossed your mind when you had seen him at your wedding, standing before the High Septon in the Great Sept of Baelor as the realm watched and whispered. And it was the thought that returned to you now, as fresh and bitter as ever, each time you laid eyes on him.

He was handsome. You could not deny that, no matter how much you wanted to. His jaw was strong and sharp, his nose straight and aquiline, his brow noble. His mouth was perpetually curved in a half smile that never quite reached his eyes, giving him the look of a man who knew a secret that no one else did and found immense satisfaction in that knowledge. His body was lean and well made, not bulky like a tourney knight, but wiry and graceful, with the long muscles of a swordsman and the easy, coiled tension of a predator at rest.

But his coloring was all wrong.

His hair was dark, a deep, rich brown that bordered on black, and cut short, close to his skull in the martial style his father Baelor Breakspear had favored. It was thick and soft looking, and you had felt it beneath your fingers enough times to know that it was indeed as soft as it appeared. There was only a single streak of silver gold to mark his Targaryen blood, a narrow ribbon of pale brightness that ran from his temple to the nape of his neck like a brand. It was as if the gods had begun to paint him in the colors of Old Valyria and then grown bored, abandoning the work halfway through.

And his eyes. Those mismatched, unsettling eyes. One was a clear, piercing blue, the blue of the Stormlands sky, the blue of his mother Jena Dondarrion's bloodline. The other was a deep, warm brown, almost black in certain lights, flecked with amber and gold, the brown of his Dornish grandmother. They sat together in his handsome face like two strangers forced to share a room, never quite meeting, never quite agreeing. They gave him the look of something assembled from spare parts, something the gods had cobbled together from whatever materials they had at hand and then sent out into the world unfinished.

He looked like a Stormlander. He looked like his mother's son. He looked like a mongrel.

And there you stood, Y/N Blackfyre, the spitting image of Daena the Defiant reborn.

You were everything a Targaryen should be. You were the living embodiment of the bloodline that had conquered Westeros, the bloodline that had ruled for nearly two hundred years, the bloodline that Valarr Targaryen could claim by name but not by appearance. And you wore the name of his family's greatest enemy, Blackfyre, the house of the usurper, the house of rebellion and treason and broken oaths.

The irony was not lost on you. It was certainly not lost on him.

You could feel his attention on you even before he looked up. It was a physical thing, a weight, a pressure, like the heat of the sun on bare skin. He was always aware of you, always attuned to your presence in a way that made you feel like prey being stalked by a patient, methodical hunter. And when he finally raised his eyes from his book, the impact of his gaze was like a blow.

His mismatched eyes traveled over your body with the slow, deliberate thoroughness of a man savoring a fine wine. They lingered on the swell of your breasts, visible through the thin linen, on the curve of your hips, on the length of your legs. They traced the line of your throat, the soft hollow where your pulse fluttered visibly beneath your skin. They drank you in, consumed you, devoured you. And when they finally met your eyes, there was something in them that made your breath catch, a hunger so raw, so intense, so utterly possessive that it stole the air from your lungs.

He wanted you. That was nothing new; you had known that since your wedding night. But there was something else in his gaze tonight, something darker and more complicated. It was as if he resented you for making him want you. As if your beauty was a personal affront, a reminder of everything he was not, everything he could never be. He looked at you like a man starving, and hating himself for his hunger.

"My wife," Valarr said, his voice low and smooth. He did not look away from your face, though you could see the effort it cost him. His eyes kept flickering down, tracing the lines of your body, before he forced them back up. "How kind of you to join me. I was beginning to fear you had forgotten the way."

As if I could forget. As if I could ever forget anything about this nightmare you have constructed for me.

You said nothing. You had learned that too, in the long weeks since your wedding. Silence was safer than words. Words could be twisted, weaponized, turned back upon you with that gentle, reasonable smile he wore so well. Words could be used to trap you, to expose you, to give him more ammunition for the slow, grinding war of attrition he waged against your spirit every single day.

Silence, at least, was your own. He could not take your silence. He could not twist it or weaponize it or use it to humiliate you. He could only wait, and watch, and try to find new ways to make you speak.

He closed the book and set it aside, but he did not rise. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his legs spreading slightly, his posture one of casual, arrogant ease. The robe fell further open, revealing more of his chest, the flat plane of his stomach, the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the silk. He was aroused, you realized with a jolt. The evidence of his desire was unmistakable, pressing against the fabric of his robe, and he made no effort to hide it. Why would he? This was his chamber, his kingdom, his world. You were the intruder here, the supplicant, the conquered.

"Come here," he said.

Just that. Two words. Soft as a lover's whisper, heavy as a command. It was not a request. It was never a request, no matter how gently he spoke it. Every word that fell from his lips was an order wrapped in silk, a demand disguised as consideration.

You walked toward him. Your bare feet made no sound on the thick Myrish carpet, and you moved with the unconscious grace that had been drilled into you since childhood, the posture of a noblewoman, the bearing of a lady, the carefully cultivated elegance that marked you as someone of consequence even when you had no consequence at all. The thin linen of your shift whispered against your skin as you walked, a constant reminder of your vulnerability, your exposure, your complete and utter dependence on his mercy. You could feel his eyes on you with every step, could feel the weight of his gaze like a physical caress, sliding over your breasts, your hips, the shadowed juncture of your thighs.

You stopped before his chair, close enough to feel the heat of the fire on your skin, close enough to smell him, that intoxicating blend of sandalwood and smoke and warm male skin that you had come to associate with long nights and tangled sheets and the slow, inexorable erosion of your will. He looked up at you, his head tilted slightly to one side, his mismatched eyes gleaming in the firelight.

His hand rose. You braced yourself for his touch, on your face, your throat, your breast. But instead, he caught a strand of your silver gold hair between his fingers, rubbing it gently as if testing the quality of fine silk. His touch was light, almost reverent, and his eyes softened with something that might have been mistaken for genuine admiration by someone who did not know him.

But you knew him now. You had spent a moon learning him, studying him, cataloging his every expression and gesture and word. And you knew that the softness in his eyes was not admiration. It was hunger. It was envy. It was a desperate, consuming need that he hated himself for feeling.

"Beautiful," he murmured. His voice was rough, almost pained. "Gods, do you have any idea what you do to me? What you've done to me since the moment I first saw you?"

He drew the strand of hair to his face and pressed it to his lips. His eyes closed for a moment, and you watched his throat work as he inhaled the scent of you, the faint perfume of the lavender soap you were permitted to use, the clean, sweet smell of your skin. When he opened his eyes again, they were dark with something that looked almost like anguish.

"You know," he said, still stroking your hair, still holding it against his lips as if he could not bear to let it go, "I used to dream of hair like this. When I was a boy, I would pray to the Seven every night, every single night, to make mine silver. To make me look like my grandfather. Like my uncles. Like a true Targaryen."

His voice was soft, musing, but there was an edge to it now. A bitterness that he could not quite hide.

"I would kneel before the altar in the royal sept," he continued, "and I would promise the gods anything, anything at all, if they would just change the color of my hair. I promised to be brave, like my father. I promised to be wise, like my grandfather the King. I promised to be pious and just and merciful and all the things a prince is supposed to be. And every morning, I would wake up and run to the mirror, hoping that this time… this time, they had listened."

He released your hair, letting it fall back against your shoulder. His hand moved to your face, his fingers tracing the line of your cheekbone with a touch so light it was almost not there at all. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, and you felt your lips part involuntarily, a small, betraying response that you could not control.

"They never did," he said. "The gods have a cruel sense of humor, don't they? They gave the Valyrian beauty to the Blackfyre, the daughter of traitors and rebels, the spawn of a usurper's bloodline. And they gave the dornish coloring to the Prince of Dragonstone, the heir to the Iron Throne."

His thumb traced your lower lip, pressing slightly, feeling the soft, full curve of it. His eyes were fixed on your mouth now, and you could see the conflict in them, the desire warring with resentment, the hunger battling with something that looked almost like hatred. Not hatred of you, you realized with a start. Hatred of himself. Hatred of his own weakness, his own need, his own desperate, consuming want for something he believed should be beneath him.

"You should have been mine by right of blood," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You should have been born a Targaryen. You should have been my sister, my cousin, my equal. Instead, you are my enemy's daughter, and I have to pretend that I married you for politics. For duty. For the realm."

His hand slid from your face to your throat, his fingers wrapping around the slender column with a gentle but unmistakable pressure. He could feel your pulse beneath his palm, quick, fluttering, like a trapped bird. His thumb stroked the hollow of your throat, feeling the warmth of your skin, the life that beat just beneath the surface.

"But that's not why I married you," he said, and his voice cracked slightly, revealing a rawness that you had never heard before. "I married you because I couldn't stop thinking about you. Because from the moment I saw you, standing there with your family, defeated, kneeling, surrounded by guards, your head held high even in defeat, I knew I had to have you. I had to possess you. I had to make you mine."

He hated you because you made him feel weak, made him feel wanting, made him feel like a mongrel scrabbling at the gates of a palace he would never be worthy to enter.

And beneath all of that, beneath the hunger and the envy and the resentment and the hate, there was something that looked almost like tenderness. Almost like love. But it was a twisted, possessive, consuming love, the love of a dragon for its hoard, the love of a collector for his most precious acquisition.

His hand tightened on your throat, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you aware of his strength, his power, his absolute control over you. His mismatched eyes blazed with an intensity that was almost frightening, and you could see the muscles in his jaw working as he struggled to contain whatever was raging inside him.

"You are mine," he said, and it was not a statement. It was a vow. A curse.

His hand released your throat and moved to the back of your neck, tangling in your silver gold hair. He pulled you down, and you went willingly, or perhaps not willingly, but without resistance, which amounted to the same thing. His mouth found yours, and he kissed you with a desperate, consuming hunger that stole your breath and set your blood on fire.

It was not a gentle kiss. It was not the careful, controlled kiss of a husband performing his marital duty. It was raw and hungry and full of all the twisted, complicated emotions that churned inside him, the desire, the envy, the resentment, the need. His tongue swept into your mouth, claiming you, tasting you, devouring you. His hand in your hair held you in place, not allowing you to pull away, not allowing you to escape the intensity of his kiss.

And gods help you, you kissed him back. You did not mean to. You did not want to. But your body betrayed you, as it always did. Your lips parted beneath his, and your tongue met his, and your hands came up to grip his shoulders, whether to push him away or pull him closer, you could not have said. The taste of him filled your mouth, wine and smoke and something dark and addictive that you could not name. The heat of him surrounded you, enveloped you, consumed you.

When he finally broke the kiss, you were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against yours, and you could feel the rapid beat of his heart against your chest. His hand was still tangled in your hair, and his other hand had found your waist, his fingers pressing into the soft curve of your hip with a possessive grip.

"You are cold," he observed, his thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone. "The walk from your chambers is too long. I have told the servants to keep your fire burning through the night, but they seem to forget. Careless of them. I shall have to speak to the steward."

You will do no such thing, you thought. You want me cold. You want me to arrive here shivering and desperate for the warmth of your fire, the warmth of your bed, the warmth of you. This is by your design, as everything is by your design.

But you said nothing. You simply stood there, letting him touch you, letting him pretend to care about your comfort. What else was there for a traitor's daughter to do?

"The hour is late," he said, withdrawing his hand. He rose from his chair with the easy grace of a man who had never known a moment's true hardship, who had never had to fight for anything in his life. He was not tall, shorter than his father had been at his age, you had heard, and shorter than most of the knights who served in the Kingsguard, but he still loomed over you, close enough that you could count the flecks of lilac in his blue eye, the flecks of amber in his brown one. "I trust your chambers are comfortable?"

Cold. Empty. A prison with silk curtains and a bed that feels like stone. "Yes, my prince."

"Good." He smiled, and for a moment, he almost looked kind. "I would hate to think you were suffering. You have suffered enough, I think. Your family's choices… well. We need not speak of that. The past is the past, and you are my wife now. The future is what matters."

He reached down and took your hand. His fingers were long and elegant, a musician's fingers, a scholar's fingers. They wrapped around yours with a gentle but unmistakable firmness, a claim of ownership that needed no words to express.

"Come to bed," he said, his voice rough and low.

He rose from the chair, pulling you with him, and began to walk toward the great canopied bed. You followed, because you had no choice. Because your body was already responding to him, already softening and warming and preparing itself for his touch. Because some traitorous part of you wanted this, wanted his hands on your skin, his mouth on your throat, his body moving against yours.

He did not release your hand as you walked. His fingers were warm and strong around yours, and you found yourself gripping back, holding on to him as if he were the only solid thing in a world that had turned to water and smoke.

The act itself was never violent. That was the worst part. That was the part that made you want to scream, to weep, to claw at your own skin until you could feel something other than this terrible, suffocating gentleness.

If he had been cruel, you could have hated him. If he had hurt you, truly hurt you, if he had taken you with the brutal entitlement of a conqueror claiming his spoils, you could have built walls of rage and disgust to shield yourself from his touch. You could have retreated into the cold, clean fortress of your hatred and watched him from behind its battlements, untouched and untouchable.

But Valarr Targaryen was not cruel. He was gentle. And his gentleness was more devastating than any cruelty could ever be.

He laid you down on the bed with the care of a man handling something precious and fragile. The furs were soft beneath your back, the silk sheets cool against your heated skin. He loomed over you for a moment, his mismatched eyes traveling over your body with that hungry, reverent gaze, drinking in the sight of you spread out before him like a feast. The firelight played across your skin, gilding your silver gold hair, casting shadows in the hollows of your throat and the valley between your breasts.

"You are so beautiful," he breathed. His voice was thick with emotion, almost pained.

He lowered himself beside you, propped on one elbow, and his free hand began to explore your body. His touch was light, almost reverent, as if he were mapping the contours of a holy relic. His fingers traced the line of your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, the soft swell of your breast. They circled your nipple through the thin linen of your shift, feeling it tighten and peak beneath his touch, and he made a low sound in his throat, a sound of satisfaction, of possession, of hunger barely restrained.

"I want to see you," he said. "All of you."

He did not tear your shift away. He did not rip the fabric from your body. Instead, he gathered the hem in his hands and slowly, slowly drew it upward, revealing you inch by torturous inch. The mound of your sex. The skin of your stomach. The curve of your waist. The undersides of your breasts. And then, finally, your breasts themselves, full and round and perfect, the nipples a color that darkened as he watched, tightening in the cool air of the chamber.

He made that sound again, that low, almost pained sound, and lowered his head. His mouth found your breast, and you gasped as his tongue circled your nipple, hot and wet and devastatingly skilled. His hand found your other breast, his fingers rolling and teasing the sensitive peak until you were arching beneath him, your body betraying you with every shudder and moan. His tongue swirled around the bud, sucking gently at first, then harder, teeth grazing just enough to make you arch into him. A gasp tore from your throat, your fingers threading into his hair, tugging at the silver streak as pleasure warred with the haze in your mind. Was this what you wanted? His free hand slid up your thigh, pushing the hem of your dress higher, fingers brushing your wetness.

He took his time. Gods, he always took his time. He explored every inch of you with his hands and his mouth, learning you, memorizing you, claiming you. He kissed the hollow of your throat and the inside of your elbow and the sensitive spot just below your ear that made you gasp and clutch at his shoulders. He traced the curve of your hip with his tongue and pressed open mouthed kisses to the soft skin of your inner thigh. He touched you everywhere, tasted you everywhere, until you were trembling and desperate and utterly, completely his.

And through it all, he watched you. His eyes never left your face, cataloguing every reaction, every gasp, every involuntary arch of your body. He wanted to see your pleasure. He needed to see it. Because your pleasure was proof, proof that you were his, proof that your body recognized his claim even if your mind resisted, proof that the Valyrian beauty he coveted responded to the mongrel prince who should have been beneath you.

"Feel how wet you are for me," he growled, slipping a finger to stroke your slick folds. You bucked against his touch, a moan betraying your body's eagerness even as you bit your lip, eyes fluttering shut. He circled your clit with pressure, dipping lower to push one finger inside you, then two, curling them to hit that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. His mouth returned to yours, swallowing your cries as he pumped his fingers, stretching you, preparing you, your whispered 'wait' lost in the rhythm of his thrusts, but your hips rose to meet him, chasing the building tension.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough. "I want to see your eyes when you come apart for me."

You tried to look away. You tried to close your eyes, to retreat into the darkness behind your lids where he could not follow. But his hand caught your chin and turned your face back to his, and you had no choice but to meet his gaze as his fingers found the slick, aching center of you and began to move with devastating precision.

"Look at me," he repeated, and there was something in his voice, a desperate, almost pleading quality that made you obey. "I need to see you. I need to know that you feel this too. That I'm not the only one burning."

Your climax crashed over you like a wave, and you cried out, a sound you could not contain, a sound that was torn from you against your will. Your back arched, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your eyes locked with his as the pleasure consumed you. And through it all, he watched. His mismatched eyes blazed with triumph and hunger and something that looked almost like worship.

"That's it," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. "That's my girl. My beautiful, perfect girl."

He moved over you then, settling between your thighs, and you felt the hot, hard length of him pressing against your entrance. He paused for a moment, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Say my name," he said. "I want to hear you say my name."

You did not want to give him that. It felt like too much, like a surrender too complete to be borne. But his hips shifted, the head of him pressing against you but not entering, and you knew, you knew, that he would wait all night if he had to. He would wait until you broke, until you gave him what he wanted, until you acknowledged that he was the one giving you this pleasure, that he was the one you needed.

"Valarr," you whispered. The name tasted like defeat. Like surrender. Like the death of everything you had been before.

His smile was a thing of terrible beauty, triumphant and hungry and impossibly tender all at once. "Again."

"Valarr."

He thrust into you in one smooth, devastating motion, and you cried out his name a third time, not because he asked, but because you could not stop yourself. He filled you completely, stretched you perfectly, and for one endless moment, you simply stared at each other, joined in the most intimate way possible, your breath mingling, your hearts pounding in tandem.

"Mine," he breathed, and began to move.

He made love to you slowly, reverently, as if you were something holy and he were a pilgrim who had traveled a thousand miles to worship at your altar. His thrusts were deep and deliberate, each one designed to draw out your pleasure, to make you feel every inch of him, to imprint himself on your body and your soul. He watched your face the entire time, his eyes dark with intensity, cataloguing every flutter of your lashes, every parting of your lips, every gasp and moan that escaped you.

"So perfect, so mine," he whispered, voice thick with emotion, slow thrusts that built like a gathering storm, pulling out almost fully before sliding back in, grinding against your clit with each hilt. His hands worshipped your body, one tangling in your silver hair to tilt your head back for his kisses, the other pinning your hip to the bed, controlling the pace. You wrapped your legs around him, heels digging into his ass, urging him deeper despite the lingering fog of consent's shadow.

The intensity mounted, his reverent touches turning possessive, gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise, sucking marks into your neck that would linger like claims. Sweat slicked your skin, bodies sliding together in a symphony of gasps and moans.

He shifted, angling to hit deeper, faster now, the bed creaking under the force. Your walls clenched around his cock, the coil in your belly tightening unbearably. "Come for me," he urged, thumb finding your clit again, rubbing in tight circles as he pounded into you.

The climax crashed over you like a wave, your pussy spasming around him, milking his length as you cried out, silver hair sticking to your damp forehead, purple eyes glazing with release. He followed moments later, thrusting erratically before burying himself deep, cock pulsing as he flooded you with hot cum, ropes spilling into your core, burying his face in your breasts as his body shuddered against yours. You felt the hot pulse of his release inside you, felt his arms tighten around you as if he were afraid you might disappear, felt his lips press reverent kisses to your throat and shoulder and the corner of your jaw.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. You lay tangled together, your breathing slowly returning to normal, your bodies still joined, your skin slick with sweat. His weight was warm and solid on top of you, and despite everything, despite the hatred and the resentment and the bitter knowledge of what he had taken from you, you felt safe.

It was a lie. You knew it was a lie. But in that moment, in the warm, firelit darkness of his chambers, with his body pressed against yours and his breath soft on your neck, you could almost believe it.

He stirred finally, rolling off you but not letting go. His arm remained wrapped around your waist, pulling you against his side, and his hand came up to stroke your hair with a gentle, almost absentminded tenderness.

He pressed a kiss to your temple and settled back against the pillows, his arm still wrapped around your waist.

"You may return to your chambers now," he said, his voice already growing distant, dismissive. "Ser Alan will escort you."

The words were the same as they always were. The dismissal was the same as it always was. And yet tonight, something was different. Tonight, the thought of leaving, of rising from this warm bed and walking back through those cold corridors to your cold, empty chamber, filled you with a despair so profound that it threatened to swallow you whole.

You did not move.

The silence stretched. One heartbeat. Two. Three. You could feel his attention shift, could sense him turning his head on the pillow to look at you. You kept your eyes fixed on the canopy above, counting the dragons. Five. Six. Seven.

"You are still here," he observed. There was no surprise in his voice, only a kind of clinical curiosity. "I gave you leave to go."

You swallowed. Your throat was dry. "I know."

"Then why do you linger?" He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with those mismatched eyes. In the dim light, they seemed to gleam with an inner fire of their own, the blue one cold as ice, the brown one warm as embers. "Have I not been a considerate husband? Have I not given you your own chambers, your own space, your privacy? I would never force you to remain where you are not wanted."

Where you are not wanted.

The words hung in the air between you, heavy with double meaning. You were not wanted in his heart, you knew that, had always known it. He did not love you; he possessed you. He coveted you. He resented you and worshipped you in equal measure. But he did not love you, not in any way that you recognized as love. And you were not wanted in his chambers either, except when he summoned you, except when he wanted to use your body and watch you respond to his touch.

But here you were. Tangled in his silk sheets, breathing his air, warmed by his fire. And the thought of leaving, of rising from this bed and walking back through those cold, dark corridors to your empty room, made you want to weep.

"You summon me," you said. Your voice was barely above a whisper. "You summon me every night."

His brow furrowed with perfect, practiced confusion. It was a mask you had seen him wear a hundred times, the face of a man who could not understand why anyone would question his actions, who genuinely believed himself to be acting only with the purest of intentions.

"I summon you because you are my wife," he said, as if explaining something simple to a child. "It is my duty to attend to you. To ensure the continuation of our line. The realm needs heirs, sweet wife. Our union must bear fruit."

He reached out and brushed a strand of silver gold hair from your face, his touch feather light, almost tender. His fingers lingered on your cheek, tracing the line of your jaw, the curve of your ear.

"But I would never keep you here against your will," he continued. "That would be… unseemly. You are not a prisoner. You are my wife. If you wish to return to your chambers, you have only to say so. I will summon Ser Alan myself."

You are not a prisoner.

The words were a lie, and you both knew it. You were a prisoner in all but name. Your every movement was watched, your every word reported, your every attempt to reach out to the world beyond the Red Keep carefully and quietly thwarted. You were not permitted to write to your brothers at the Wall, not permitted to see your sisters, not permitted to send word to your mother in Tyrosh, not permitted to leave your chambers without an escort of guards who claimed to be protecting you but who served only to remind you of your captivity.

You had tried, once, to walk in the gardens alone. It had been a small thing, a tiny act of rebellion. You had simply slipped away from your ladies in waiting and wandered down a path you had not been shown before. Within minutes, two guards had appeared at your side, their faces carefully neutral, their voices politely insistent. "For your safety, my lady. The Red Keep can be dangerous for those who do not know its ways."

You had not tried again.

And your ladies in waiting, they were not companions. They were watchers. Spies in silk and velvet, assigned to report your every word and deed to the Prince. They whispered behind their hands when they thought you could not hear, their voices dripping with contempt. "Traitor's daughter." "Blackfyre whore." "She thinks herself a dragon, but she's nothing but a pretender in borrowed scales."

They pulled your laces too tight when they dressed you, leaving bruises on your ribs. They brought you cold food and colder stares, and when you asked for something, a book, a warm bath, a moment of peace, they smiled sweetly and promised to see to it, and nothing ever came of it.

The world had been carefully, methodically stripped away from you. Your family, your name, your freedom, your dignity. Everything that had made you who you were had been taken, piece by piece, until only he remained. The only person who touched you without care. The only person who looked at you without disgust. The only person who spoke to you as if you were a person, not a symbol of a defeated rebellion.

You were tired. Gods, you were so tired. Tired of the cold walks. Tired of the cold bed. Tired of the cold stares. Tired of being alone with your thoughts and your grief and your rage until you felt like you might shatter into a thousand pieces.

And he was warm.

He was here, solid and real, his body radiating heat beside you in the vast bed. He was the only person in the Red Keep who touched you without making you feel like something unclean. His hands on your skin, his voice in your ear, his presence filling the empty spaces inside you, it was a poison, you knew, sweet and slow and deadly. But it was the only warmth you had.

You hated him for it. Hated him with a fierce, burning intensity that sometimes took your breath away. Hated him for what he had taken from you, for what he continued to take, for the way he made you need him even as you loathed him.

And you needed him. That was the worst part. That was the part that made you want to scream. You needed his warmth, his touch, his voice. You needed the only human connection that was offered to you, even knowing that it was offered with chains attached.

"Valarr."

His name felt strange on your tongue. You usually called him "my prince" or nothing at all, maintaining that last, fragile barrier of formality between you. But in this moment, in the dying firelight, with your body still humming from his touch and your walls crumbling around you, you could not bring yourself to maintain that final pretense.

"Yes?"

His voice was soft. Encouraging. The voice of a man who already knew what you were going to say and was savoring the anticipation, drawing out the moment like a cat playing with a mouse.

You closed your eyes. You could not look at him while you said it. You could not watch his face as you surrendered this last, precious piece of yourself.

"Let me stay."

The silence that followed was the loudest thing you had ever heard.

You could feel him smiling in the darkness. You did not need to see his face to know that the satisfaction was radiating from him like heat from the dying embers, that his mismatched eyes were gleaming with quiet triumph. You had given him exactly what he wanted, exactly what he had been working toward since the night of your wedding.

"I'm sorry," he said, and there was nothing but gentle confusion in his tone. "I don't understand. Stay where?"

You bastard. You utter, complete bastard.

You knew what he wanted. You had always known. He wanted you to say it clearly, to spell it out, to beg for the privilege of sleeping in his bed like a dog begging for scraps at the master's table. He wanted you to acknowledge that you needed him, that you wanted him, that all his careful manipulation had worked exactly as intended. He wanted you to hand him this victory on a silver platter, to kneel before him and offer up your last shred of pride as a gift.

And you were going to give it to him.

Because you were too tired to fight anymore. Because the thought of that cold walk back to your empty chambers, of lying alone in that cold bed with nothing but your thoughts for company, made you want to weep. Because whatever this was, this twisted, poisonous thing between you, it was better than the alternative.

"The corridors are cold."

"The corridors are always cold." His tone was mild, pleasant. "I have offered to have braziers placed along your route. You declined."

Because accepting would mean admitting I notice the cold. Because accepting would mean I owe you gratitude for every scrap of warmth you deign to give me.

"I did not wish to trouble the servants."

"Ah." He said it as if you had revealed something profound.

"You are too considerate, wife. Most ladies would demand a dozen braziers and complain of the smoke. But not you. You bear your discomforts in silence." His hand found yours beneath the furs, his fingers interlacing with your own. His palm was warm. "I admire that about you. Truly."

You wanted to pull your hand away. You did not.

"Please," you said instead.

The word tasted like ash in your mouth, like defeat, like the death of something precious and irreplaceable. It was the word of a supplicant, a beggar, a woman who had been stripped of everything and was grateful for whatever scraps were thrown her way.

"I am asking. I want to share your chambers. I want…"

You faltered. What did you want? You wanted your family back. You wanted your freedom. You wanted to wake up and discover that the last moon had been nothing but a nightmare, that you were still in Tyrosh with your mother and your siblings, that the war had never happened and Daemon Blackfyre still lived and the world still made sense.

But those things were gone. They were ashes and dust, scattered on the wind of history. All that remained was this room, this bed, this man.

"I want to stay," you finished, your voice barely audible.

His smile was a thing of terrible beauty.

It transformed his sharp, mismatched features into something almost angelic, the face of a savior, a protector, a man who had rescued a fallen woman from the consequences of her family's treason and lifted her up to stand beside him. His blue eye sparkled with warmth. His brown eye gleamed with satisfaction. He looked like a painting of some ancient hero, a knight of legend who had slain the dragon and claimed the maiden as his reward.

"Oh, my sweet wife," he murmured.

He leaned down and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was soft, tender, achingly gentle. It was the kind of kiss a devoted husband might give his beloved wife after a long separation, a gesture of pure and selfless affection. And it made you want to scream.

"Of course you may stay. I would never deny you anything you truly wanted. I told you, did I not? I am the only one in this world who will care for you. The only one who sees your worth."

He pulled the furs up over your body, tucking them around your shoulders with careful, almost paternal attention. His hands smoothed the fabric, ensuring that you were completely covered, completely warm, completely enveloped in his care. Then he lay back against the pillows and drew you against his side, one arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you close.

His body was warm. Solid. Real. And for one terrible, shameful moment, you felt safe.

It was a lie. You knew it was a lie. This safety was an illusion, a gilded cage dressed up as a sanctuary. He was not your protector. He was your captor, your jailer, the architect of your slow and methodical destruction. The warmth of his body was the warmth of the dragon's breath, and you were the lamb curled in its jaws.

But it was warm. And you were so tired. And for just this moment, just this one moment, you could pretend.

"Sleep now," he murmured against your hair. His breath was warm on your scalp, his voice a low, soothing rumble. "You are where you belong. With me. Where no one can hurt you. Where no one can whisper their poison in your ear. Just us, sweet wife. Just us."

His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you even closer. You could feel the steady beat of his heart against your back, the rise and fall of his chest, the solid reality of his presence. He was everywhere, surrounding you, enveloping you, claiming you.

And then his lips found your ear, and his voice dropped to a whisper so soft you almost didn't hear it.

"I will make you love me," he breathed. "I will make you need me so completely that you won't remember how to breathe without me. And when that day comes, when you finally see that I am the only one who will ever truly want you, I will be there. Waiting. As I have always been waiting."

He pressed a kiss to the curve of your ear, his tongue tracing the delicate shell of it, and you shivered, not from cold, but from the dark promise in his words.

"Sleep," he said again, his voice returning to that gentle, soothing tone. "Dream of me. Dream of us. Dream of the life we will build together."

You closed your eyes.

The tears came then. Silent and hot, sliding down your cheeks to soak into the silk pillowcase. You did not make a sound. You had learned not to cry where anyone could hear, learned to swallow your grief and your rage and your despair until they became a hard, cold knot in your chest. But you could not stop the tears. They flowed from you like water from a broken dam, an endless river of sorrow that you had been holding back for too long.

His arm tightened around your waist. You felt his lips curve into a smile against the crown of your head.

He knew.

He always knew.

And tomorrow, when the sun rose and the world went on as it always did, you would wake in his bed. You would open your eyes to the sight of his chambers, surrounded by his scent and his warmth and his quiet, suffocating care. You would look at yourself in the polished bronze mirror that hung on his wall and see a stranger, a woman who had begged her captor to keep her close, who had traded her last scrap of independence for a few hours of warmth.

The servants would know. They always knew everything that happened in the Red Keep. By midday, the whispers would have spread through every corridor and every kitchen and every stable. The Blackfyre whore has moved into the Prince's chambers. She begged him to let her stay. She crawled into his bed like a dog seeking warmth.

Your ladies in waiting would smile their cold, knowing smiles. Lady Jeyne would make some cutting remark disguised as concern. "How wonderful that you and the Prince have grown so close. I'm sure your mother would be so pleased to know that you have found… comfort… in your new home."

And Valarr would watch it all with those mismatched eyes, that gentle, reasonable smile playing at his lips. He would see the whispers and the stares and the quiet cruelties, and he would do nothing to stop them. Why would he? They served his purpose. They reminded you that he was the only one who treated you with anything resembling kindness, the only one who touched you without making you feel like something unclean.

He was the disease and the cure. The poison and the antidote. The dragon and the knight who slew it.

And you were his.

But that was tomorrow. Tonight, in the dying firelight, wrapped in his furs and his possession, you lay still, your body pressed back against his in the spoon of his embrace.

His cock, still half hard from your earlier joining, nestled against the curve of your ass, warm and heavy. You tried to focus on the rhythm of your breathing, to let the exhaustion pull you under, but the tears kept coming, silent tracks carving paths down your face.

Then you felt it, a subtle twitch, a thickening against your skin. His length stirred, growing firm once more, pressing insistently into the cleft of your cheeks. Your breath hitched, a fresh wave of emotion crashing through you.

Not again. Not when your heart felt so raw, so fractured. But your body, traitorous as ever, responded with a faint clench low in your belly, the lingering slickness between your thighs a reminder of how he'd already claimed you.

Valarr shifted behind you, his hand sliding from your waist to cup your breast, thumb brushing over the still sensitive nipple. He hardened fully now, his cock rigid and hot, the veined shaft sliding along your ass as he rocked his hips forward in a slow, deliberate grind.

"Shh," he murmured into your hair, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your back. "Let me hold you closer. Let me make it better."

You didn't protest, words caught in your throat, choked by the sobs you refused to voice. His free hand trailed down your side, over the flare of your hip, fingers dipping between your legs to part your folds. He found you wet, despite everything, his touch gentle as he stroked your clit in lazy circles, coaxing more arousal from your unwilling core.

A whimper escaped you, muffled into the pillow, as his cock nudged at your entrance from behind, the broad head parting your lips.

He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, filling you again with that stretching burn that blurred the line between ache and need. Your walls fluttered around him, gripping his thickness as he sank deep, his hips flush against your ass. The position pinned you in place, his body a solid weight over yours, one arm banded across your chest to hold you tight while the other worked your clit with unerring precision. He didn't thrust yet, just held himself buried inside, letting you feel every pulse of him, every throb against your inner walls.

Tears streamed faster now, soaking the silk beneath your cheek, your purple eyes squeezed shut against the overwhelming flood.

Why did it feel good? Why did his possession twist the knife of your despair into something almost like solace? He began to move then, shallow rolls of his hips that dragged his cock along your depths, grinding against that spot that made stars burst behind your lids.

His breath was hot on your neck, lips pressing soft kisses there even as his pace quickened, thrusts turning firmer, the slap of skin on skin echoing softly in the chamber.

"That's it," he whispered, his mismatched eyes no doubt fixed on the back of your head, imagining your surrender. "Take me. You're mine to comfort, mine to fuck, mine to keep." His fingers pinched your nipple lightly, rolling it as he drove deeper, his cock pistoning in and out with controlled power.

You cried silently, body rocking with each impact, ass pressing back against him involuntarily as pleasure coiled tight despite the grief tearing at your chest.

He fucked you like that, possessive, unyielding, his hand leaving your clit to grip your hip, pulling you onto him harder.

The angle let him hit deeper, his balls slapping against your thighs with every plunge. Your sobs broke free in quiet gasps, tears blurring your vision, but your pussy clenched around him, soaking his length with fresh wetness. He groaned, low and reverent, burying his face in your silver hair, inhaling your scent as if it were his lifeline.

The build was relentless, his thrusts erratic now, chasing release while forcing yours. "Cry if you must," he said softly, voice laced with that dark tenderness. "But come for me again. Show me you need this as much as I need you." His hand snaked back to your clit, rubbing fast and firm, and the dam broke. Your orgasm ripped through you, walls spasming wildly around his cock, milking him as you shuddered, tears flowing unchecked.

Valarr followed with a muffled curse, slamming deep one last time, his release flooding you hot and thick, ropes of cum painting your insides. He held you through it, cock twitching as he emptied himself, his arms wrapping tighter, as if to absorb your sorrow into his own body.

In the quiet aftermath, he stayed inside you, softening slowly, his lips trailing kisses along your shoulder. The fire had died to embers, casting faint shadows over the furs tangled around you both. Your tears slowed, exhaustion finally claiming you, and as sleep pulled you under, the dreams came, of dragons, but also of mismatched eyes watching over you, a cage that felt, in the haze, almost like home.

you two had been married for six moons cycles now. you were from lorath married to valarr in the hopes of establishing good relations with the free cities as lorath seemed to have good standing with all the other cities. you and valarr got along very well, you were not shy like many of the court ladies he had met. you laughed loudly, always spoke your mind and you were always kind to him. you were not the kind of lady he ever thought he would marry but he was happy. the two of you were a good pair.

you and the son of the sealord, ser antar, were apparently childhood friends and he had not been able to come to you wedding so he decided to make the trip to dragonstone an extended stay where he would be here for a whole moon cycle. he remembers you telling him he was free to decline the invitation from antar, that relations with braavos would still be good should he say no but when he really thought about it he decided to accept it.

valarr rarely held company of others. while you had plenty of ladies in waiting valarr tended to stay by himself. too busy dealing with issues presented to him at court, petitions and many other matters as lord of dragonstone. he was nervous he would not get along with antar since he had little to no male friends but the two were fast friends. more so since antar was an extremely outgoing man and basically forced valarr to spend time with him."it is well, we get along well-"

"you know that is not what i meant." valarr looked up from his papers and tilted his head at the eagerly smiling man. "whatever could you mean then?"

"the marital bed of course! shes the daughter of a mistress from a whore house turned wife she must be excellent." valarr couldn't fight the redness that burns up his throat to his ears. he coughs hard into his fist as if antar had punched him in the throat. valarr readjusted himself in his chair in his awkwardness as he tried to avoid antar's eager gaze.

"i don't see why… i don't know why you would…" he sort of trails off, not knowing how to answer. a look of shock takes over antar's face before valarr is saved by a knock on the door. valarr allows whoever it is to enter, not even caring if it was an assassin anyone could come in now to save him from this conversation.

it just so happened to be you. you were wearing a gown he had made for you in his houses colors, there were a few dragon patterns stitched on the sides of the skirt. he couldn't fight the smile that creeps up on his face. you always looked beautiful but when you wore his colors there was a strong sense of pride and affection that washed over him.

"hope i am not interrupting your very manly conversation." you were holding a tray with some snacks on it. you give valarr a sweet smile as you place the tray on his desk. he smiles back at you as he tries to push the earlier conversation from his mind. you reach over the desk and grab his hand lightly before you move away. antar's grin only grows as you sit down next to him and across from valarr.

"simply talking about your marital bed is all." valarr coughs once more and forces himself to look down at his papers. scribbling nonsense on a blank paper. "antar. i told you not to tease him."

"i am not teasing! i am truly curious is all. you must be a very wicked women to have him so flushed." valarr did not look up though he could feel their eyes looking at him.

he had nothing to complain about truly. before he had gotten married many of the knights in the court would always try to invite him out to the brothels with them which he adamantly declined. the thought of bastard children running around made him sick. when he had stupidly asked why they seemed to love to go there so much the men had told him there was no pleasure like the pleasure sex provided, especially from the women at the pleasure houses. 'my wife just does not do it for me.' they would say.

valarr does not understand that in the slightest. he remembers his wedding night very vividly. he was worried for you in the beginning as you did not touch a single piece of food that whole night. you did not even drink anything. there was to be no bedding ceremony but there would be two men sitting in the room to make sure the deed was done. you had left the dinner early, saying you needed awhile to prepare.

it had taken you a full hour before you came into his bedchamber. he had been sitting awkwardly in his bed, your brother who was one of the men sitting in took pity on his and tried to ease his nerves and conversate with him but the young prince could barley hold a conversation. he did not know the name of the man with your brother, likely one of his fathers personal knights.

when you had finally walked in valarr truly thought he was going to faint. you had clearly changed out of your elegant gown and fixed your hair, you were completely covered by a large cloak.

his hands clenched in his lap as he watched you remove the coat to show you were wearing just a simple robe, the neck was so low and loose your breasts were very obviously making themselves known. your skin glowed, you had put on some sort of oil, when you stepped closer and closer to him he could tell you were covered in a floral scent. it wasn't overpowering it was a little relaxing actually to the point his hands softened.

"don't worry my prince, this will be nice for you. if the boys back there are a problem i swear once i start you will not even know they are there."

he tried to look away as you had straddled him sitting down firmly in his lap. your hands cupped his jaw and forced him to look at you. his face had to be deep red at this point and he was trying to ignore how terribly uncomfortable his pants had begun to be."seems you're already firmed up, you like me that much my prince?"

it was more of a tease than an actual question but valarr still answered. "of course i do my lady…" you still paused for a moment like you weren't expecting an answer. or more like you had not been expecting that answer. the two of you were a political marriage, it was not a bond of love. yet valarr had found himself growing fonder and fonder of you with each passing day. maybe one day it could be love. maybe what valarr felt already was love.

you moved your hands away from his face and undid the tie on your robe to let the fabric drop and expose your completely naked body. valarr swiftly moved his head to try and look away but you had caught his head with your hands and forced him to look at you. "don't get embarrassed now my prince."

you had kissed him quickly. it was not like the one you had shared hours ago. that kiss was simple, sweet and quick. this one was hot heavy and passionate. he felt like you were practically trying to eat his lips off his face. but he liked it, he liked it so much he put so much effort into trying to give you that same feeling back.

he didn't even realize he was laying on his back now until you pulled away to catch your breath. the two of your chests raising quickly up and down. before he could even think of doing anything else you had captured his lips again and he gasped, you had stuck your tongue in his mouth. he had no clue people even did this but he was not going to complain.

you froze when he felt your hands drag down his chest to the helm of his pants. you pulled away only a small inch away from his lips, they were practically still touching his when you spoke.

"can i?" it was a stupid thing to ask. of course you could it was the whole point of the bedding ceremony in the first place bur the fact you had stopped to ask made himself feel stiffer."of course, whatever you wish."

the words were a little slurred, your salvia must be full of booze. he felt like he was above the clouds. you pushed your lips back to his as you tugged down his pants just enough to free his cock from them. he hissed against you, the cool air of the room hitting his cock made him shiver. he was not cold for long as practically without any warning you had adjusted him and pushed his leaking cock inside of you.

those men had to be lying. sure they were right, there was truly not greater pleasure than the heat the warmth he was feeling in that moment but the concept of his wife not being the one giving it to him? it was a ridiculous concept.

he was so lost in a drunken heat as you push yourself up and down on his length, your lips sloppily against his as you captured every small groan or moan that escaped his lips. as he found himself getting close and closer to his peak your lips had begun to suck on his neck as his hips had uncontrollably began to thrust up to meet yours. when he reached his peak he had almost fainted for the second time that night. he barely remembers anything after that. minor flashes of you dismissing the men from the room, you had cleaned him up before the two of you got into bed and slept.

as the moons passed he still found the same pleasure in you he had that first night. sometimes the position was different, you taught him many things, many positions, it was some of the most enjoyable moments of his life. even now he finds himself firming up just at the thought of you. he looks back up to see you lost in a conversation with antar, the subject clearly and thankfully having steered away from sex.

"apparently his step father only gifted him five slaves instead of ten and he was so mad he had their marriage annulled." you had made a gross face as antar laughed at the ridiculousness of it. you two were clearly talking about some of the other free cities but he had not been paying any attention. the knock on the door startles him completely back into reality. his voice slightly cracks as he says to come in. your eyes immediately dart to him as a knowing smirk makes its way to you face. you had once told him he had plenty of tells when he was 'needy' as you would put it. he always claimed he didn't do any of the things you said but he knew he did.

it was one of your ladies here to inform you that you were needed in as one of your ladies in waiting was pregnant and you liked to keep up all her health check ups. you bid a goodbye to antar before leaning over valarrs desk and giving valarr a knowing grin."i will see you tonight husband."he fought down the groan that creeps up in his throat. you know he loves to be called husband. your husband. you were teasing him. he watches you leave like a love sick dog until antar pointedly clears his throat causing valarr to look at him."have you told her you're madly in love with her?"

he is silent. he hadn't. he did not know how to even breach the subject with you. he was so sure you did not feel like same way. you acted the same around him as you did everyone else, he did not feel any different from one of your lady friends. except when you did your martial duties of course. "no."

antar laughs before he leans further back into his chair. he lets out a thoughtful sigh as he gazes out the window. "you know. i was in love with her as a kid."

valarr's entire body freezes as he feel like a frost has come over the room. he felt sick. "i am not anymore if you are worried about it so please get that look off your face. i am simply saying i always imagined the two of us would end up together. but when i see the way she looks at you, i can see she never saw me in that same light."

the young prince says nothing but a small smile creeps up on his lips. maybe antar was right, he had known you his entire life. maybe he should plan a dinner with you, unlike the ones you usually share together every night, and tell you how he feels. "you must at least tell me if she screams when she peaks."

valarr felt like an ice cold bucket of water splashed over him. "I'm sorry?"

"she tells me she never does but i know she must be lying. shes a screamer i am sure."

valarr for the first time in awhile had no clue what the man in front of him was talking about. he came to find out antar had a habit of saying pretty random stuff but this didn't seem like anything he had said before. the look on valarr's face must have told antar what he was thinking causing the sealord's son to burst out laughing.

"oh gods you've never made her peak? i almost feel sorry for her. shes a needy woman, maybe she even has a mistress." it was said in a jest. one that valarr let out a fake humorous laugh to but the room was covered in an ice cold chill.

that conversation had been hours ago but valarr couldn't get it out of his mind. antar had left to go find you, after assuring valarr there was nothing wrong and that's how most marriages are. he drowned himself in his work in an attempt to not think too much about it. it bothered him. the idea that you sought out another man bothered him so much. he should be able to provide for you. why had he never considered this before? you had never once complained to him. you seemed perfectly content after you two have sex it had never crossed his mind.

he takes his dinner in his room. he knows its selfish of him, the two of you always ate dinner together, but he couldn't stand the thought of having to see you knowing you were likely thinking about another man. so he stayed in his office far too late into the night. he finally felt comfortable leaving knowing you were always sleep at this hour.

yet when he walked into the room he saw you perfectly wide awake. you discarded the book you were reading as you stood up. you were wearing the same robe you always were when you two had sex. he tried to ignore how his body began to ache. "i am surprised to see you are still up my lady." hes shocked he even managed to push the words out of his throat. you simply narrow your eyes at him. your posture is stiffer than normal, your hands clenched in front of you. you're angry. "you were not there for dinner."

he deflates. hanging his head in embarrassment. "i am sorry my lady. i was… swarmed with work." he can't bring himself to tell you the truth, that he was so sick with jealousy that he did not even touch the dinner that was brought to his office. you look even angrier now than you did before. you lift your had and signal for him to come closer to you. when he gets close enough you grab his hands tightly. "if you have an issue with me I'd like for us to talk about it. i do not want there to be resentment between us." he lets his head drop onto your shoulder, his turns his head to the crook of your neck to smell your sweet scent.

"i am sorry i have not been good at my marital duties." you reach and hand up and caress the white streak in his hair. "whatever could you be talking about my prince? i am more than satisfied."

he suddenly finds himself filled with rage as he swiftly pulls away from you. "you do not have to lie to me." he turns is back to you as he walks a few steps away from you. he does not see the look of shock on your face. prince valarr was not a temperamental man you came to know that well in the moons you've known him now. the fact that he is acting like this tells you he is clearly very upset about something.

you knew something was amiss when one of the servants came to tell you he would be taking dinner in his office. if it was any other day you would have gone straight to his office to see him. but you had guests to attend to. once the room was cleared and it was just antar, you and a large table of food did antar finally speak with a sheepish look on his face. "i may have poked him too much today my friend. its my fault."

you knew antar was a man of many words but not many thoughts which is why you had explicitly warned him when he first arrived to watch his tongue in front of the young prince. it was not as lax about crude topics or joke like you and antar were, he was a very prime and proper boy like his father. antar winces as soon as your face twists into an anger snarl. "I'm sorry!" you lean over the table and glare, your words spoken through clenched teeth, "what did you say?"

you decided to wait for him in your shared chamber once antar finally spilled what he had said. you knew he was likely mad about the idea of you having another mans child. when he came in you would get him to admit his issues, you would assure him that it was not true and antar was kidding and you would thoroughly punish him for the comment then you could both go to bed peacefully. yet it seemed like he was not mad about that at all. he seemed more, upset? about the marital bed? you did not understand at all.

"i am not lying my prince i am sorry if i did something to make you think that. for my sake if you could clarify exactly what you mean i could offer some sort of solution." as always you were very forward. you did not like to let issues linger, your mother always told you men build resentment towards woman easily and it was best to stop issues right as they began. you did not want issues with valarr you liked him a lot.

no words are spoken as valarr keeps his back towards you. you don't like the silence its deafening. you take a deep breath, it seemed like valarr was not going to say anything so you make the first move. you take a few steps towards him, not too close but close enough he could certainly tell you were right behind him. "my prince if this is about that crude joke antar made earlier to you allow me to apologize on his behalf-"

"what kind of husband am i if my wife must take a mistress? i am a failure." he keeps his back turned as he cuts you off. you are lucky he has his back turned as you believe you have never been so caught off guard in your whole life. "I am your wife. what need would i have for a mistress?"

he turns his head to face you, your face completely falls as an uncomfortable ache hits your heart at his distraught face. "i have never made you peak." he says it like it is complete fact. the young prince seems intent on continuing his streak of shocking you as you can barely believe the words spilling from his lips. "I'm sorry?"

"what kind of husband.. what kind of man am i if i can't make the woman i love satisfied." he turns away from you like he is ashamed to even be standing in your presence. you walk up to press completely against him, your hands reach around his body, grabbing his clenched hands and lace your fingers through his. you press your head against his shoulder before speaking. "my love, it is not your job to please me in the marital bed. is it my duty to assure you are pleased so we can produce an heir."

"but you are unsatisfied." "says who?' he is silent but you feel his grip tighten against you. "i am more than satisfied my love i am not lying. if you count the times i peak with you on my mind and your name on my tongue you have made me peak countless times."

he swiftly turns around leading you to almost stumble back before he grabs you to keep you pressed close to him. "whatever do you mean?" your face has your normal teasing smile on it now, you press a small peck to his lips. "my love, why do you think it takes me so long to come to the bedchamber whenever we are about to have sex?"

he thinks for a long moment. he had never truly considered it. he knew women took much longer to get ready for things, he simply had always assumed you just needed more time to get dressed. knowing he was not going to answer you begin to tell him. "before we had gotten married, my mother told me my first time was going to hurt. but i did not want it to hurt so i asked her if there was any way to prevent such a thing. she told me if i prepped myself i would feel no pain at all. she gave me a couple of bottles of oil and liquids i could slather myself with to make myself looser on top of the prep therefore it does not hurt at all. every since then before we end the bed i make sure to thoroughly prep myself."

you press your foreheads together, "i love you husband. there is no need for any other." his heart felt so warm so full. all the terrible thoughts he had been having for hours fled from his mind as he was fulling consumed by you. "i love you wife." your lips connect in a heated kiss. the awkward tension in the room turning into a heated passion as he pulls you flush against his body.

"teach me." he had mumbled against your lips. "teach you what?"

"how to please you." you pull away fully, trying not to get distracted by his plump lips. "my love…" "please."

you relent. like you always do to him. you drag him over to the bed and remove your rode. "take off your clothes." he follows swiftly after you, discarding every piece of fabric from his body as you make your way to sit near the pillows on the bed, leaning comfortably on the backboard. he had long gotten over his embarrassment over your naked body or his own, he loved to look at you now, you were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. he places a kiss on your shoulder as he sits in front of you. you almost laugh at the concentrated look on his face he looks like he would hang on to every single word you said.

he gulps when you spread your legs wide, "woman are more complicated than men but not as complicated as many think." you take your hand down and spread your lips open, he has to take many deep breaths to keep himself calm. "this is the main thing that stems pleasure for woman, the pearl." he lets a groan slip out of his mouth as you hum delightfully as you rub yourself.

"use your fingers and simply copy what i was just doing. some people use their mouths but that is a lesson for another day." his fingers replace yours and you immediately tense up, "not so hard." he lets out a quick sorry as you laugh, "don't threat. now simply do as i was doing." he begins swirl his fingers around in a circle and your reaction is breathtaking. your hands reach out to grab his arms as you say his name in a moan. "faster not too fast." he listens just as he would if he was out in the training yard with his mentor. he watches your eyes close and your mouth agape as small murmurs and moans pass through it.

"valarr oh with your free hand, hm your fingers put your fingers in me." his eyebrows furrow deeper in minor confusion, "my fingers?" "yes please i need it." you do not say how many so he simply goes with two. its so warm. so wet. he shudders as your back arches off the bed as the highest pitched moan he's ever heard from you fills the air. "valarr in and out just like you would your cock." his cock twitches at the mention of it, the bed was stained with the precum dripping out of it but he did not care one bit. he followed your instructions exactly as you said. he had no idea why he was not doing this sooner, your noises the way you looked, you were so beautiful and he was so hard.

he curled his fingers when you asked he split his fingers when you said to. the longer it went on the louder and louder you got. he ended up reaching down and wrapping his lips around your nipple while his fingers moved faster and faster. "I'm so close husband." you continued to chant his name and he did not slow his pace, he pulled back from you to get a good luck at your twisted face as your body twitched in pleasure, letting out a loud shout of his name before you fell back, your chest heaving up and down as you tried to catch your breath.

he pull his hands away from you. his awkward held his slick covered fingers in the air unsure of what to do with them. you grab his wrist and twist his hand towards his mouth. "suck on them." he immediately groans as your sweet taste hit his mouth eagerly sucking at his hand to lick up every single drop. "fuck me husband."

he was now so desperate for relief he did not hesitate before lining himself up and pushing into you. he was no longer in control of his body as he began to push himself in and out of you. lust taking control of his body as his now free hands play with your nipples as his hips eagerly thrusted to meet yours. you sounded louder than you ever did any other time he was inside you, your hands reaching around him to claw at his back. "touch my pearl." he was so lost he almost did not hear you he opens his shut eyes to look at your shining ones. "i want to peak with you husband please."

his hands moved on their own, he kept on hand playing with your breast while the other reached down to circle your pearl. he let out a spew of curses as you clenched around him in pleasure. the room was filled with the air of sex, the sound of wetness and skin hitting against each other and the sound of your combined moans. "husband I'm so close." he groans loudly as his head falls to your shoulder. "me too cum with me wife." he reaches his peak before you but he manages to continue to thrust into you so you follow very quickly afterwards. his body fell completely on top of yours as you both laid covered in your own sweat. he had never came so hard in his life. it seemed like you had never either as it took you far too long to exit your dazed expression.

"so. no more talk of mistresses right?" he playfully slaps your side and you both laugh. he does not bother to pull out, too comfortable in your warmth. "we should get cleaned up my love." he ignores you, tugging the blanket from under you both to cover you as he lays peacefully on top of you. "later." his soft sleeping breaths fill the air and you know later certainly means tomorrow. you stare at the ceiling while you play with his hair, sleep unable to take you from this moment.

Nothing made the heir to the heir's blood so hot as a tourney. And nothing made him so angry as Brightflame.

During his intermission, you descended from the lord's box in hopes of an embrace and the opportunity to encourage him further, having enjoyed his displays of talent today, as you always did.

None of those things had the chance to come into fruition, for Valarr had bent you over the small oak table the moment you entered his waiting tent, frustrated after a dry yet heated exchange with his cousin.

"'I will not embarrass you', he says, then shoves his lance through a mare's neck." The prince muttered bitterly, pushing his breeches down just enough to free his cock, armour clacking as he stroked himself to harden fully.

Ringed fingers gripped the edge of the table in anticipation, feeling the breeze on your bare skin when the Targaryen-red skirts were rucked up around your hips in anticipation.

Large, rough hands gripped the globes of your behind. Without warning, patience, or care, your husband thrust into your core all at once.

A loud, breathy moan left you before you could stop it, your cheek pressed against the wood.

"Be quiet!" The prince groaned with a threatening connotation, weaving his fingers into the hair at your nape, making a fist and tugging roughly. His strong hips began to piston against yours, the base of his breastplate slapping your arse as red as your skirts, and your colouring face.

Usually, the prince was a gentle, detail-oriented man who much preferred to take you apart piece by delicate piece than break you. That sweet husband of yours would worship you every night.

But when frustration got to him, you were his only outlet. Gods, you were not complaining.

A strangled whimper left you. The guards were sure to hear this.

"Did I not tell you to shut the fuck up?" He snapped, slapping your arse roughly, making you whine. You had no space to move or jolt away from his touch if you wanted to.

"I'm- I'm sorry-" Shaky words were cut off with another sharp swat to your cheek.

There was no reasoning with him when he was in this state. Valarr needed your body to temper his own; and he knew you loved it.

"You," He began pointedly, voice low and gruff, just like his thrusts. The prince was so good at holding in his sounds of pleasure, but you could hear them tipping his tongue. "are a dirty whore. Allowing me to do this to you."

A childish whimper left you, squeezing your eyes shut, your hot body unable to take his words.

"You enjoy it. I would wager Aerion can hear us, hmm?" That was punctuated with a particularly rough thrust of his hips, his fat cock bullying that spot deep inside of you. He did not even have to angle himself, his length so beautifully made for you that it curved against your tight walls no matter the position.

"That makes you even wetter." Slap.

"Fucking." Slap. "Slut." Slap.

The velvety walls of your cunt tightened and squelched, the cord in your belly tying itself in knots.

Tears began to build in your ears, your voice a shell of itself, whiny and humiliated with a mix of blinding pleasure. "Husband." The table's legs begged for mercy, just as you did. "I cannot."

"You can." He snapped lowly, tugging at your hair with his free hand, his other giving your arse a sharp swat before gripping your hip once again.

"You fucking will." He hissed, only quickening his movement. Any moment now, the announcer would call his name for the next tilt. He would fill you up before that or die trying.

A quick, practiced hand left your hair and reached between your legs, crushed by the slam of his hips against yours, and yours against the table, despite your dangling legs from how he held you in place.

A lone, deft finger rubbed at your pearl, his voice an unbothered grunt.

"Valarr-"

"Cum, wife. Now, or you will not for a week."

The threat made tears dripping down your face fall to varnish the wood, the tight coil of your climax unravelling at his command.

A loud, pained cry left you, body spasming in overwhelm as he used you past your limit, digging his nails into your arse when a final messy thrust left him spilling into your core.

For a long moment it was silent, the room — tent — filled only by the sound of your quick breathing and sniffles.

He pulled out then, eyes glazing guiltily over the blooming red hand prints on your behind. His hands tucked himself back into his breeches before he carefully moved your skirts back down to cover you. They then gripped your waist, helping you to straighten up.

"I am sorry." The prince murmured into your neck, embracing you from behind, pressing a gentle kiss just below your ear, his cheek being tickled by your earring.

Still, your breath was quick. Everything was warm, your breath, your thoughts, his hold, and his sticky cum beginning to drip down your inner thighs.

"Whatever for?" You eventually struggled out, covering his strong hands around your waist with your own fragile ones.

He was silent for a moment, then chuckled, rubbing circles on your stomach. "I shall apologise far more eloquently after my joust."

"Do not. I much enjoy your transgressions." You joked, still exhaling quickly, but your heartbeat began to calm in his arms.

The sound of cheering was heard outside the tent's fabric, that was his cue to leave you. He sighed and let go of you.

"I will send one of your maids in to proper your appearance. I shall return in moments." He said with an almost solemn tone, a hand just about to push the entrance flap open.

The action was stopped by your grip on his wrist, quickly tying a red bow of silken ribbon around his wrist. Your favour.

Your husband smiled, tight-lipped and amused.

"Good luck, my prince."

"Having married you, I am clearly the luckiest man alive." He mused, pressing a rushed kiss to your temple and striding out of the tent, feeling the mulch crunch under his boots. The grip on his reins was unaffected when he mounted: his squire had surely heard people fucking before, and he knew better than to question it.

Inside of the dragon-headed tent, you collapsed into a chair matching the table that you were just split open upon. A lazy laugh left your lips.

The call of your husband's name by the announcer was comforting. He would win this bout, as he always did.

Tonight he would satisfy you and cuddle you as he did each and every eve.

May the Maiden forgive you… but this wickedness was simply unavoidable. If she did not wish you to have such perversions, she should not have graced you with a husband as handsome and perceptive as Valarr.

Valarr Targaryen m.list ♖

my apologies for this utter filth - it also isn't proofread so might be a bit wonky

i do hope you enjoy though my loves! requests open <3

House Targaryen taglist

Reader addressed as “you” | Fluff | Established Relationship | Dunk Being Socially Catastrophic | Secondhand Embarrassment | Aerion Being… Aerion (arrogant, sharp-tongued) | Mild Canon-Typical Rudeness | Dragons (very real) | Setting: Ashford Tourney

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The gates of Ashford Keep yawned wide beneath a hard blue autumn sky, their ancient towers hung with green-and-gold banners snapping briskly in the wind. House Ashford’s sigil: the white sun-and-chevron blazing against orange, caught the light with almost defiant brilliance, as though determined to rival the dragon standards riding in beneath it. Our Sun Shines Bright, their words declared, and on this day it seemed they meant to prove it.

Within the walls, the courtyard churned like a struck anthill. Destriers stamped and snorted steam into the crisp air; grooms darted between iron-shod hooves with half-swallowed curses; squires wrestled bridles with reddened faces and thinning patience. Petals scattered ceremoniously across the cobbles were ground at once into damp streaks of colour. The air carried leather, sweat, hot iron, and the faint sweetness of harvested grain drifting from the fields beyond the walls.

Trumpets split the noise clean in two.

The herald’s voice rang from the steps of the great hall, gilded with importance. “Our Lord of Ashford humbly welcomes the great and honourable Baelor Targaryen — firstborn son of King Daeron the Good, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King, and heir to the Iron Throne.”

Fanfare burst bright and brazen. Heads bowed in rippling waves as the Targaryen procession rode through the gate beneath a forest of dragon banners.

Prince Baelor inclined his head with effortless grace, silver hair catching the sunlight like polished steel. “My Lord of Ashford.”

“It is a great honour to receive Your Grace,” Lord Ashford replied, bowing so low that the hem of his cloak brushed stone.

“It is a great honour to be received.”

Behind Baelor rode Prince Maekar, stern and hawk-eyed. And behind him—

Chaos.

“Boy, stop gaping. See to my horse.”

Prince Aerion’s voice cracked sharp as a riding whip.

Duncan the Tall, who had been staring perhaps a heartbeat too long at all that silver hair and dragon silk, started as if boards had clapped beside his ears. “I’m—I’m not a stable boy, m’lord.”

Aerion’s pale gaze skimmed over him with cool disdain. “Not clever enough?”

Dunk flushed the colour of boiled crab. “Um…”

“Well, if you cannot manage horses,” Aerion continued lazily, “fetch me wine and a pretty wench.”

“Oh, m’lord pardons. I’m—I’m no serving man either. I have—I have the honour to be a knight.”

Aerion inspected him as one might a bruised apple at market. “Oh. Well… knighthood has fallen on sad days.”

A horse screamed then, high and wild, hooves striking sparks from stone. The crowd jolted back in a flurry of silk and curses.

“Move away!”

Dunk was already moving. “Whoa, whoa. Easy now.” He caught the bridle with steady hands, his voice lowering to something patient and sure. “It’s all right, girl. Too many people. I don’t much like it either.”

The mare shuddered, then eased beneath his touch.

“I agree,” Dunk murmured when she nickered.

“The pretty ones are always temperamental,” came a dry voice behind him.

“He meant the princeling, not the palfrey,” another added.

Dunk turned to find two white cloaks observing him with faint amusement.

“Ser Roland Crakehall,” said the broader knight. “And this is my sworn brother, Ser Donnel of Duskendale. Gods, boy. Do you ride your horse into battle, or does it ride you?”

Donnel grinned. “Forgive Ser Roland. It is not often he must look up to cast his eyes down.”

“Yes, yes, I am quite the rascal,” Roland muttered. “Now tell me, Ser Duncan — is there a proper place to shit around here?”

Dunk blinked. “Uh… not really, no.”

“A man of such birth has never deigned to disturb his arsehole with hay.”

“He’ll deign before the week is out,” Dunk said with a crooked grin.

“Where are you from, man? You do not smell House-bred.”

“No place, really.” Dunk shrugged. “No place at all.”

“I know it. My family’s from there.”

“You’re not a Darklyn of Duskendale?”

“We were crabbers. Far back as it goes.”

“Ser Donnel?” someone called sharply, and Donnel’s attention snapped away at once.

Dunk hesitated. “May I ask, ser… how the son of a crabber came to wear white?”

“Same way we became crabbers,” Donnel tossed over his shoulder as he strode off, cloak stirring.

“‘Same way we became—’” Dunk began, too earnest to know when to stop.

“Are you Baelor Targaryen?” a stable hand called from behind him, dry as dust.

“N-no.”

“Then move the fuck out of the way.”

“Right. Yes. Of course. Apologies.”

As Dunk shuffled aside, the yard shifted again in waves of armour and colour. Near the far wall, away from trumpet and spectacle, something quieter unfolded — subtle enough that most missed it entirely.

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You stepped down from the wagon.

While princes traded pleasantries and lords measured bows, you withdrew without fuss — the practiced retreat of one long accustomed to spectacle and tired of its glare. Your gown of deep red silk brushed the cobbles, edged in black, simple but finely made. At your throat hung a slender gold chain bearing a small three-headed dragon — a gift commissioned by King Daeron himself after you bore Prince Valarr’s son and heir. The metal caught the light softly: modest to the unknowing, unmistakable to those who understood.

You crouched, skirts pooling around you, and brought yourself level with the boy at your side.

He bore his father’s stubborn jaw and serious mouth, though his hair was brown and wind-tossed rather than silver. Through it ran a single white streak at the center of his brow like a slash of moonlight. One eye blue, one brown. Both were far too solemn for six.

“Hello, sweet boy,” you murmured, straightening his collar. “It is rather stuffy with all these people, is it not?” Your thumb brushed his cheek, gentle even amidst iron and noise. “Father is busy with his duties. Shall we say goodbye to the horses for the day?”

He nodded gravely, fingers curling around your dragon pendant so the tiny heads knocked softly together.

Inside the wagon behind you, half-hidden in shadow, his dragon lay curled upon wool and straw. Not large — not yet — but real. Breathing. The only dragon hatched for House Targaryen since the last had died in smoke and memory. Its existence drew reverence and unease in equal measure. Even now, glances flicked toward the wagon, quick and hungry, like crows daring not to land too near.

Your son looked back toward it, frowning faintly.

“Just a moment,” you said gently.

You lifted him into the carriage and laid a steadying palm against the dragon’s flank, feeling muscle twitch beneath warm scales. “Easy. Too many eyes today.” It was meant as much for your son as for the creature.

Arms circled your waist from behind.

Valarr.

He leaned in to peer at the small beast as your son declared, “Papa, he wants to get out.”

Valarr smiled, brushing the boy’s hair aside and pressing a kiss to his temple. He followed it with a soft caress of your cheek and a brief, careful kiss to your lips — restrained, public, but unmistakably his. “We must complete the arrival procession first,” he said. “Your rooms are ready. We will move our things inside shortly.”

“We were going to say goodbye to the horses,” your son added. “Will you join us?”

“Not yet.” Valarr’s hand remained warm at your waist. “I must stand with your grandfather and speak to Lord Ashford. But go on. I am sure they would enjoy kind company after such a journey.”

Even from across the yard, Valarr’s gaze returned once, brief but certain, as if he counted wife, child, and dragon all in a single glance and found none of them worth leaving unwatched for long.

The family turned toward the dragon, who quieted beneath the touch of his young rider and his future king. Valarr watched a moment longer and murmured, almost to himself, “He grows.”

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It was not the princes or the banners that caught Dunk’s eye, but the small island of calm at the edge of the yard: a woman, a boy, and a wagon; everyone else seemed careful not to crowd too closely.

He saw you there, sleeves brushed with straw, posture unpretentious, your hand steady on horse and child alike. No crown. No glittering display. Only a woman soothing a beast and a boy speaking to it as though it were a friend.

The boy pressed his cheek to a stallion’s neck. “We shall not ride you into the lists,” he informed it solemnly. “You are far too noble for that.”

Dunk drifted closer before he quite realized it. “Aye?” he said, bending slightly in an effort to meet the boy on fairer terms, though he could not truly manage it. “And what if the horse disagrees, young lord?”

The boy looked up, stern enough to shame a bannerman twice his age. “Horses do not disagree with me.”

Dunk’s brows rose. “Is that so? Gods, I’ve been doing it wrong all my life. Mine disagrees every morning.”

A pause — long and deliberate — and then the boy’s mouth twitched. A small, stubborn giggle escaped before he could swallow it.

You watched Dunk with faint amusement, curious what sort of man could be so tall and so plainly earnest. Men often mistook composure for harmlessness. It was an error you had seen before. He mistook your look for encouragement.

“You must be the Targaryen prince’s nursemaid,” he said warmly. “And doing a fine job of it.”

Your son stiffened at once. “I am not in need of nursing.”

Dunk chuckled. “Aye, I can see that. You’ve the look of a boy who’d bite anyone who tried.”

“I would,” the boy said promptly.

“Good. That is a proper princeling.”

The boy’s shoulders drew back a fraction, pleased despite himself.

“But princes tend to wander,” Dunk went on. “Best keep one close. They’re like cats, I’ve heard.”

“I am not a cat.”

“Worse,” Dunk said solemnly. “Cats don’t have men with swords following them.”

Your son’s gaze flicked briefly toward the wagon.

“Mine does,” he replied.

Dunk nodded. “Sensible. I’ve always said a prince ought to have men with swords.”

“I have a dragon,” the boy added. He said it without boast or wonder, as though stating something as ordinary as the weather, which somehow made it far more convincing.

Dunk blinked, then laughed warmly. “A dragon? Aye, of course. And I’ve a castle back in No Place.”

“It is real,” the boy said, unimpressed.

“Of course it is. What’s it called?”

“He does not like strangers.”

“That’s wise of him,” Dunk replied. “I don’t much like strangers either. Especially not those with teeth.”

The boy’s laughter slipped free again, brighter this time.

“And does your dragon breathe fire?” Dunk asked. “Or smoke and disappointment, like certain lords I’ve met?”

Your son snorted.

You bit the inside of your cheek to hide your smile. There was something disarming about this enormous knight who did not yet understand he stood beside the future of his house and spoke of dragons as though they were kittens.

“And you are?” you asked gently.

“Ser Duncan the Tall.” He bowed, awkward but sincere. “At your service.”

“You are very tall,” your son observed.

“It seems to be my chief accomplishment.”

A smile tugged at your lips.

“Most fine ladies would scream at a startled horse,” Dunk continued, gesturing to the mare you had calmed. “Then the horse would scream, and then I would scream, and the whole yard would think dragons had come to eat us.”

Your son’s giggle rang clear this time — quick and bright as a coin striking stone — and he clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes shining despite his effort at dignity.

“And you believe I am his nursemaid?” you asked, your voice smooth as silk drawn over steel.

“Well,” Dunk said earnestly, “you’ve the look of someone sensible. Court ladies look like they’d faint at the sight of dung. You look like you’d clean it up and scold the horse for good measure.”

For a heartbeat, you went very still.

Dunk — blissfully unaware that he had just wandered to the edge of a cliff — smiled at you like a pleased fool who thought he had paid a compliment.

Then you laughed.

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It was low and bright and utterly unoffended, the sound cutting clean through the din of hooves and harness. A few nearby heads turned without knowing why.

Behind you, a white cloak shifted.

Ser Roland approached with the quiet inevitability of gathering storm clouds.

“Your Grace,” he said evenly.

The words struck like a dropped blade.

Dunk went rigid, as though ice had been poured down his spine.

Your Grace.

Your son’s fingers tightened in yours — small, sudden, firm — and in the space of a single breath, Dunk’s mind seemed to race backward over every word he had spoken. Nursemaid. Cats. Smoke and disappointment. Dragons. All of it lined up before him like men awaiting sentence.

You inclined your head, serene. “It is nothing. Ser Duncan was offering his… assessment.”

Your smile softened deliberately, saving him from the edge he had not known he stood upon. Your son studied Dunk with grave deliberation, as though weighing whether this enormous knight was dangerous or merely foolish. After a moment, having decided the latter, he gave a small, dignified wave — a princeling’s mercy.

Dunk’s face burned scarlet.

“M’lady,” he managed, bowing far deeper this time. “I meant no disrespect.”

“None taken, Ser Duncan,” you replied, amusement still warming your tone. “It is refreshing to be thought sensible.”

The kindness in your words was the only plank between him and drowning.

He bowed again, too fast, too deep, nearly folding himself in half. You saw it then — the dawning horror in him. Not fear of swords. Not fear of pain. But the realization that he had been joking with a woman who, in another life, might have seen his head mounted above the gate and thought little of it.

Beside you, your son looked up at him with all the solemnity he wore like armour.

And then he failed at it completely.

His mouth twitched. His mismatched eyes shone. He pressed his lips together so tightly his cheeks puffed, as if he could trap the laughter inside by force of will alone.

Ser Roland stepped nearer, white cloak settling about him like snowfall. He did not raise his voice. He did not scowl. He merely looked at Dunk as though measuring the precise distance between foolishness and death.

Dunk, who had faced charging horses and hunger and a hundred small humiliations, went as still as a penitent before judgment.

You felt the laugh rise again, sharp and bright, but habit swallowed it. A princess did not snort in front of the Kingsguard, no matter how dearly she wished to. Your shoulders lifted faintly with the effort, and your fingers tightened around your son’s hand — not to still him, but to steady yourself.

Your son, of course, interpreted this as encouragement.

A slight sound escaped him — half-hiccup, half-choked breath — that might have passed for a cough if anyone had been charitable.

Dunk shot the boy a desperate look. Please. Don’t.

The boy’s eyes widened with innocent delight, as if he had been handed a new toy.

Dunk’s face had gone beyond red now — it bordered on catastrophic. “M-my lady,” he stammered, the words strangled nearly beyond recognition. “I— I truly meant no—”

“I know,” you said gently, rescuing him once more. You did not let your smile sharpen. “Thank you for speaking with us, Ser Duncan. You were… a welcome distraction.”

Ser Roland’s gaze flicked to you — brief, restrained, the faintest question in it — and you met it with the calm that had been forged into you by necessity. Whatever you were within, you were composed without. That was the rule. That was survival.

Dunk bobbed another bow, puppet-like. “Yes. Yes, my lady. Thank you, my lady.”

Roland looked back at him.

It was not a threatening look.

It was worse.

It was the look a seasoned knight gives a nervous squire who has somehow wandered into a lord’s solar and knocked over a cask of Arbor gold.

What, it said without words, in seven hells are you doing?

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Dunk straightened an inch, caught the look on Ser Roland’s face, and immediately reconsidered the wisdom of straightening at all. His hands hovered awkwardly at his sides — too large, too empty — as though he might somehow fold himself into something smaller if he only tried hard enough.

You gave your son’s shoulder the gentlest squeeze. “Come,” you murmured, the word meant for him but also for the moment itself — to move it along before it sprouted teeth.

You turned, silk whispering over stone, and the courtyard’s roar rushed back in at once. Iron rang against iron. Voices rose and collided. Horses stamped and snorted, leather creaked, and banners cracked overhead like sails straining in a stiff wind. Somewhere, a stable boy shouted for a room. The world did not care that Ser Duncan the Tall had nearly perished of embarrassment beside a wagon.

Your son behaved for precisely three steps.

Then, just as Dunk’s heart might have begun beating normally again, the boy twisted at the waist and called back with bright, sudden curiosity, “Ser Duncan!”

Dunk flinched as if his name were another whipcrack. “Y-yes, my… young lord?”

“Are you jousting?” the boy demanded, as though this were the most pressing matter in all the Seven Kingdoms.

Dunk blinked. His eyes flicked to Roland, then to you, then back to the child. “I—” He swallowed. “Aye. I hope to, my—” Every title in his mind seemed suddenly treacherous. “My prince.”

Your son nodded once, solemn as a war council. “Good,” he said. “I will watch.”

Dunk’s expression did something helpless and painfully sincere. He looked like a man being offered honour when what he truly feared was public humiliation. “Ah,” he managed. “That’s… very kind.”

“I like tall knights,” the boy added thoughtfully, as if this were a strategic consideration.

Dunk attempted a smile that wavered between pride and impending doom. “Then I’m likely to be your favourite, I suppose.”

Your son beamed.

Dunk leaned forward a little, lowering his voice as though they were conspirators instead of spectacle. “But you shouldn’t… ah… You shouldn’t cheer too loudly, Your—” He faltered again. “You might frighten my horse.”

Roland’s mouth did not move, but something in the quiet set of his jaw suggested he was enjoying this far more than any sworn brother ought.

“Your horse is frightened of me?” your son asked, eyes wide with delighted offence.

“No,” Dunk lied at once. “Of course not. My horse is frightened of… noise. And lances. And… glory.”

The boy stared at him for a breath, then giggled outright — bright and boyish and utterly unsuited to a yard thick with steel.

You drew in a careful breath, shoulders tightening as you wrestled your own laughter back into something dignified. “Come, sweet boy,” you said, attempting sternness and failing slightly at the edges. “Leave Ser Duncan to prepare.”

“I am preparing,” Dunk insisted quickly, as though he might be examined on the matter. “I always prepare.”

“By talking?” your son asked, delighted beyond reason.

Dunk nodded with grave conviction. "Talking is important. That’s how you convince the horse not to throw you.”

As though the world itself had chosen to join the jest, a low sound rose from within the wagon behind you.

It was not the sound of any horse in Ashford’s stables.

It was rough. Throaty. A rumble that seemed to carry weight in the air itself. Squires paused and looked toward the carriage, and Ashford knights and maids visibly stiffened.

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For a heartbeat, the world thinned around it.

Dunk froze mid-bow, eyes widening. His head turned slowly toward the wagon, like a man staring at a dark doorway he has just heard breathe.

“What—” he began, voice cracking. “What was that?”

You did not look back. Your hand remained steady on your son’s shoulder, as though deep, resonant growls were as commonplace as squeaking wheels or unruly squires. “Oh,” you said lightly, silk-smooth. “He’s just tired.”

Dunk blinked. “He?”

Your son, still grinning, answered with perfect innocence. “My dragon.”

Dunk laughed at once — too loud, too quick — the laugh of a man who assumes a child is inventing marvels. “Ha! Aye, right. Your dragon. Of course.”

The wagon shifted faintly. Straw rustled. Something heavy resettled.

This time, Ser Roland’s gaze moved before the sound had entirely faded. His eyes sharpened at once, not in surprise but in recognition, as though he had spent long enough near danger to know exactly what shape this one wore. A moment later, the look was gone, smoothed back into Kingsguard composure.

Dunk noticed none of it.

He only shook his head fondly at the boy. “Well,” he said warmly, “your dragon has better manners than most knights I’ve met. Growls once, then goes back to sleep. Doesn’t even demand wine.”

Your son’s laughter burst free again, delighted and bright.

You bit the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted copper.

Because if you laughed now — here, in front of Roland, with half the court already measuring your son’s shadow for greatness — you might never stop.

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That evening, when the yard had emptied of banners and bluster, and only the soft scuff of hooves and the low breath of horses lingered in the dark, Dunk sat cross-legged beside his mare, brushing her down by lanternlight. The glow turned her flank to warm bronze, leaving the rest of the world in shadow.

Across from him, Egg sat on an overturned bucket, polishing a helm with far more concentration than the task required.

“I made a bit of a fool of myself today,” Dunk said at last.

Egg did not look up. “That narrows it down very little, ser. Go on.”

Dunk scratched at his jaw. “Met a princeling. Mismatched eyes. Serious as a septon at a funeral. Claimed he had a dragon.” He huffed softly. “Nice lad. Said he’d watch me joust.”

“That sounds harmless enough.”

Dunk hesitated, brushing slowly. “Might’ve called his mother a nursemaid.”

Egg’s polishing stopped.

Very slowly, he lifted his head.

“Did anyone,” he asked carefully, “call her Your Grace?”

“…Yes.”

Egg closed his eyes.

“What was she wearing?”

“Red silk,” Dunk said, trying to remember. “Simple. Had a dragon pendant at her throat.”

Egg opened his eyes again and stared at him with something approaching despair. “Ser. That was Prince Valarr’s wife. Mother of his son.”

Dunk blinked once.

“And if the boy says he has a dragon,” Egg went on flatly, “then he has a dragon.”

Dunk blinked again.

Egg leaned forward, lowering his voice as though the very straw might carry it. “Please tell me you did not say any of this in front of her husband.”

Dunk shifted. “Well.”

“Ser.”

“He might’ve been nearby.”

Egg made a small, strangled noise and pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. “Ser. Prince Valarr is not known for enjoying insults directed at his wife.”

“I didn’t insult her!” Dunk protested at once. “I said she looked sensible!”

Egg’s hand slid down his face.

Dunk paused.

“…Might’ve called his mother a nursemaid.”

Egg very slowly looked up at him.

“Ser.”

“It was complimentary.”

“Ser.”

Egg covered his face fully now. “Seven save us.”

Silence settled between them, broken only by the steady rasp of brush through horsehair.

After a long moment, Dunk cleared his throat.

“…The dragon didn’t eat me,” he offered weakly.

Egg lowered his hands and fixed him with a long, measuring stare.

“Be grateful,” he said at last, “that the prince did not.”

Under regular circumstances, you wouldn't have made an appearance at the Tourney. Though you suppose searching for marriage prospects is a special occasion. Many would claim it is the grand centrepiece of a young noble girl's transition into womanhood, but for you, it had always been nothing less than daunting.

It was not for lack of options, your house was well-known, well-funded and well-liked, and this called for many, many suitors. Rather, the predicament seemed to revolve around your disposition.

In the past, many had seen your nature to be one of disinterest, though you yourself preferred the term 'shyness'. You struggled to make eye contact with those you did not know and had to actively remind yourself to try and maintain it. Though you did not stutter when you spoke with new people your nerves meant that answers could fall short of what men expected from a woman from such an esteemed house.

That is, if they were interested in your character at all, you'd found that many men only vied for your hand in order to get their hands on the abundance of your house's wealth and lands.

To put it plainly, you were quiet.

Your family never saw the issue with this, though in truth, they did not see the problem. See, your anxieties only affected you around those you did not know. You could speak just fine for hours when you held a connection to whoever you were talking to, but as soon as a stranger entered the picture, your chatterbox nature simply faded away.

Your father hoped to find a suitable match for you at the tourney, someone who could understand your nature and who was not cruel. He would remind you often that you didn't need to love your match, as long as you felt comfortable living alongside them would be enough.

Your attention had been fixed on the field below, where squires hurried between restless horses and armoured men with the brisk, purposeful movements of those long accustomed to tourney days. The lists were nearly ready. House banners snapped overhead in the wind, and the smell of trampled grass, dust, and horse sweat hung thick in the afternoon air.

It was loud enough, busy enough, that it gave you something to look at besides the nobles packed around you. Which, for a time, was a mercy.

You sat beside your father in the nobility section, hands folded tightly in your lap, and tried to keep your face composed as more lords and ladies took their places. The royal section sat nearby, and every new arrival only seemed to make the space feel smaller. Prince Baelor sat proudly as he watched his eldest son ride onto the field.

Your father spoke to you now and again, gesturing towards a man cloaked in green, low enough that no one else might hear. "That is Lord Rowan's second son. The Hightower boy has a temper, if the stories are true." Another pause, as a knight in polished plate was helped into the saddle below. "And there, the Prince."

You followed his gaze before you could stop yourself. Prince Valarr sat astride a dark horse near the edge of the lists, helm tucked beneath one arm while a squire made some final adjustment to the strap at his vambrace. Even at a distance, there was something unmistakably princely in the way he carried himself, upright, still, self-possessed.

"Do not turn too quickly," your father said, his voice so mild it might have been a remark on the weather.

Your fingers tightened over one another. "What is it?" He did not look at you. His gaze remained fixed on the field. "The prince has been looking this way."

For a moment, you thought he meant some other prince, some other direction, some other girl.

"Prince Valarr?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

"Mm." Your father's expression did not change, but you knew him well enough to hear the note of attention. "More than once."

Heat rose to your face so quickly you had to turn your head away. "He is not looking at us, surely," you said, and hated how uncertain you sounded. The royalty box was so close he could easily be looking for his father's gaze. Besides, he was probably too far away to truly be able to pick apart those in the audience.

Most men did not concern themselves with quiet girls tucked among the nobility. If his gaze had swept your row, it was by chance alone, toward your father, perhaps.

"Perhaps not," your father said. There was no comfort to be found there.

Below, a herald's voice rang across the grounds, announcing titles to a swell of cheers. You fixed your eyes on the lists and tried to breathe through the tightness in your chest. It was foolish to be so rattled by a thing you had not even seen for yourself.

You would not look, you told yourself. That promise lasted all but three seconds.

When you lifted your eyes, it was meant to be quick, discreet, no more than a glance toward the field. Besides, even if the prince was looking this way, it was such a distance that he would not see your eyes turned to him; there were so many people around you, he couldn't possibly assume you were looking at him.

Instead, your gaze found him at once. Prince Valarr was no longer speaking to his squire. The strap at his arm had been fastened, his reins gathered, his posture set for the lists, and still he was looking intently up into the stands.

He did not smile. There was nothing mocking in his expression, nothing of the easy arrogance some noblemen and royalty wore like perfume. If anything, he looked startled in the strangest way, as though his attention had fixed where he had not meant it to, and he could not quite pull it free.

"Father-"

"Composure," he murmured, not unkindly.

You nodded, though your pulse had begun to pound so hard you could feel it in your throat. Around you, the stands had grown louder, the crowd sensing the start of the tilt. Somewhere to your left, ladies were already whispering behind their hands, though whether about the prince or some other matter, you could not tell.

When your eyes lifted, Prince Valarr was settling his helm at last, the steel catching hard in the sunlight. His horse stamped once, impatient.

The herald called his name, and the crowd answered with a mighty roar for the Young Prince.

He should have turned fully to the lists then. He should have fixed his attention on the knight across from him, on the lance being brought to hand, on the pass ahead.

Instead, before the horn sounded, he looked up toward the nobility seats one last time.

Valarr had ridden in a dozen processions before crowds no smaller than this one, and he had long since learned how to wear attention as if it weighed nothing. As the heir of the heir, it was expected of him.

At tourneys, especially, eyes tended to follow him wherever he went. Sons of noble houses measuring him up, knights judging his seat in the saddle, and noble ladies whispering to one another, pretending not to stare. He knew how to sit straight beneath it, how to keep his expression composed. That didn't mean he took any true enjoyment in the attention.

His horse shifted beneath him, restless with the noise and motion. Valarr steadied the reins with one gloved hand while his squire fastened the strap at his vambrace.

Around him, the field was steadily descending into some form of organised chaos, squires were running amok, and the smallfolk were shouting for their favourites from the fences. He heard none of it clearly. His attention had fixed itself elsewhere.

At first, he had only looked because the seats sat close to the royal section, and his gaze had drifted towards his father. It was nothing more than a habit, some passing inventory of colours and houses. His attention had snagged on one person in particular. She was not the most extravagantly dressed, but that did not take from her comely appearance. In fact, it very well may have amplified it in his eyes. Valarr was often dissuaded by the acts and appearances of other nobles, much like his father; he was not fond of those who flaunted their wealth through their materialism.

The lady sat with her hands neatly folded in her lap beside an older lord, her father, if he hazarded a guess. She carried herself with such careful stillness that it caught his eye at once in the crowd of excited nobility. While others leaned close to gossip or to access a better view of the lists, she seemed to be trying with all her might to take up as little space as possible.

Yet he could not seem to look away.

Her expression held no courtly ease or excessive invitation. There was nothing practised about her features, something he had learned to spot at court as a young boy. She looked toward the field as if anchoring herself to it; perhaps the movement below gave her some shelter from the crowd around her. She was particularly focused on the horses; perhaps she held a liking for them?

Valarr did not know why that struck him so sharply, only that it did, and it shouldn't have mattered so deeply.

"My prince." He blinked out of his reverie and looked down at his squire. He was finished with his strap and was waiting, lance not yet in hand, clearly uncertain whether to speak again.

Valarr simply gave a short nod, more to dismiss him than to answer. Instinctively, he looked back up before he could stop himself. The lady had not yet seen him, which should have been a relief. Staring was unbecoming for a Prince, after all. Instead, he found himself with an absurd, sudden irritation of wanting to know whether she had noticed him at all.

He shifted in the saddle, waving his squire over who had collected his lance. "Who is she?" He asked, as if his squire would know whom he was speaking of naturally.

The boy glanced up to the stands, then back to him, lost in his confusion. "My prince?"

Valarr was yet to take his eyes off her. "In the nobility seats. Beside the lord in blue and silver." His voice remained even despite the impatience that had begun to edge it. "Find out her name, her house. Whatever you can."

The squire stared a half breath too long, surprise plain on his face, before he looked back to the stands, this time successfully locating the woman Valarr had described. "...At once, my prince." Valarr barely heard him take his leave.

He really should have been watching his opponent. Instead, he watched the lady in the stands lower her head as though someone beside her had spoken. Her father, most likely. He had not looked towards the Prince, but his posture had changed. It seemed he had noticed the Prince's gaze.

Valarr ran a hand down his horse's neck as she stamped her hooves impatiently. Then, the woman lifted her eyes. The distance should have blurred her and obscured her face. There was too much movement, too many people between them and yet none of it mattered. Her gaze connected with his directly, and both went still.

There were nerves in her face and surprise enough that he could see it from where he stood. He supposed that is a reasonable reaction given their predicament. She looked away first. Not playing coy or performatively. A simple desire not to maintain eye contact any longer.

Valarr reached for his helm, glancing up one last time after sliding the steel onto his head. He had no business thinking such things at a time like this. he had to focus.

And maybe show off a little, for no particular reason.

He did manage to regain his focus, in the end. Enough to avoid making a fool of himself.

By sunset, the field was all churned mud and broken lances, and Valarr had endured the cheers and the congratulations. His squire, at least, had proved useful.

He had a name now.

He repeated it once under his breath as he changed for the feast, testing the sound of it in private, and found that the sound pleased him more than it ought.

The tent at Ashford was bright with candlelight by the time he entered, loud with talk and music and the clatter of cups. Lords who had shouted themselves hoarse at the lists now laughed over wine, and ladies glittered beneath gold and silk in the heat of the room.

Valarr scarcely saw any of them. He found her near the middle tables, seated beside her father once more. If he had thought her striking from the field, dust and distance between them, then the gods were crueller than he had first suspected. Up close, there was nothing to hide behind.

Even now, amidst all the noise and candlelight, she carried that same careful composure he had noticed in the stands. Her hands rested neatly near her cup. She spoke when spoken to, but sparingly. Her gaze dipped more often than it lifted. Not submissively, but rather politely.

Once, her father leaned nearer and murmured something that made the corner of her mouth turn, not quite a smile, but near enough to one that Valarr felt the shift of it like a hand closing around his attention.

He did not mean to stare. Again. But he supposed the intent meant very little now.

He waited through the first course. Through half of the second. Through two tedious conversations with men who seemed to think recounting their sons' tilts in detail might somehow improve them. At last, when Lord Ashford rose from his place to speak with one of the stewards, Valarr took the opening and crossed the tent.

"My lord Ashford."

Ashford turned at once, surprised, then pleased. "Your Highness. I trust we serve as well as the lists did."

"You do," Valarr said politely. "You have hosted the day admirably. A worthy celebration for your daughter's nameday."

Ashford inclined his head, accepting the courtesy with visible pride. "You honor us."

Valarr let his gaze drift, carefully, as if only taking stock of the space. He did not linger overlong on her table before looking back to Ashford.

"I recognised one of the houses seated near the centre," he said, tone easy. "I know the banner, but not the lord himself as well as I ought. The one in blue and silver. You invited him, I assume?"

Ashford followed the glance and gave a small sound of understanding.

"Ah. Yes." His expression warmed at once. "A good man. We've been friends for years. Steady, fair, not given to boasting, rare enough among our sort." He named the lord, though Valarr already knew it. "One of the first invitations I sent."

Valarr nodded, as though filing away a simple courtesy.

"He seems well regarded."

"He is." Ashford's mouth twitched, amusement rising. "And if you're asking after him, you're not the first tonight."

Valarr lifted a brow. "No?"

Ashford lowered his voice a shade, the look in his eyes turning faintly wry. "His daughter has had no shortage of attention. That tends to happen when a girl is pretty, well-born, and comes with a father sensible enough not to sell her to the first smiling fool."

Valarr kept his expression neutral, though something in Ashford's phrasing settled sharply in his chest.

"Sensible enough?"

Ashford snorted. "He's here to seek a match, same as half those attending, but he's not hunting titles for sport. He wants her settled kindly. He'd sooner take a decent man with less land than a cruel one with twice the banners." That, inexplicably, pleased Valarr.

She was listening to the lady at her other side, posture attentive, though she had not yet answered. Her father said something then, low and brief, and she turned to him at once, more at ease in that single movement than she had seemed with anyone else at the table.

Ashford followed Valarr's gaze, then huffed softly through his nose.

"Some mistake her quietness for disinterest," he said. "They're wrong." Valarr looked back at him. "She's shy," Ashford went on, plainly now. "Reserved in company she doesn't know. There are men in this room who've already decided she must be proud because she doesn't chatter and simper for them." His expression soured for a heartbeat. "Most of them have spoken to her for all of three minutes."

He could picture it too easily: some grinning heir pressing too close, mistaking her silence for invitation, or else taking offense at it when she did not perform as expected.

Ashford gave a half-shrug. "Truth is, she needs time. She must first warm to people, that's all. Once she's comfortable, she's quite the speaker. More eloquent than most. But she won't force herself into easy conversation just because a man comes to her with marriage in his eyes."

Ashford's words settled into place with an ease that irritated Valarr with how quickly they made sense. A young lordling had made his way over to speak with her and was leaning too far in her direction, inflated by his own importance. She answered politely and made brief eye contact here and there, her fingers tightened around the stem of her cup. Nothing in her posture invited him to continue, and yet he did so anyway.

Valarr felt his jaw set, not with jealousy (well, maybe a little, but only because he hadn't had the chance to talk with her yet) but impatience on her behalf. It was a familiar thing, the male entitlement. His father had pointed it out to him numerous times as a child, as advice for the future. Things not to do. As a man, he would likely never fully understand, but hopefully, he wouldn't make others feel less than because of uncontrollable factors.

"They are like flies to honey." Lord Ashford followed his gaze to the Lady.

Valarr kept his voice level, though there was a hint of sadness to be found there. "And she endures it."

"That she does," Ashford answered. "Because she's well-mannered, and because others are watching. But it wears on a person, Your Highness. And despite what the other Lords may think of her quiet disposition, she is not one to simply roll over for others. I imagine it is tiring to live in that juxtaposition, between what she wishes to do and what she must do for the sake of appearance."

Valarr could see it clearly, the tightness of her shoulders paired with the way she glanced at her father as if measuring what was expected of her. He looked back at Ashford. "If time is what she needs, this tent must be the last place to approach her."

Nice one, Valarr, very inconspicuous.

The lord huffed out a laugh. "You've the right of it."

The prince hesitated, he meant to keep it as a simple courtesy. He should keep his interest quiet so that Aerion doesn't hear of it, that's the last thing he needs right now. The words rose in him all the same.

"How should one approach her," Valarr inquired, "if they wished to do it properly?" Ashford's brows lifted with amusement and then softened into something more considered. He knew better than to tease a prince, and perhaps he understood that Valarr was asking this in earnest, which was more than could be said for the rest of the buffoons at the feast.

"Gently," He finally advised. "Preferably without much of an audience. She'll speak openly when she feels safe to, but for that, she must have a feel for your character, so be honest. If you come on too boldly too early, she'll retreat."

Valarr nodded along, organising the information in his mind. "And her father? Would he take offence if a prince were to speak to his daughter?"

"Offence? No. He will take caution. He is protective, and attention from a prince can turn a girl's life upside down even without meaning to." Valarr could not argue with that. "But as long as you are respectful, he'll give you room."

Okay, he could do this. He's done harder things... maybe.

Valarr's gaze drifted toward the royal table this time. Daeron was away in his cups again. His father and uncle were the only ones who sat at the table. Aerion had chosen to eat alone, not wanting to sit with the mongrels, as he'd put it.

His father sat at ease but his eyes swept the hall... and caught his son looking. Baelor's brows rose slightly, then, with the smallest turn of his mouth, more a knowing curve than a smile, he inclined his head toward Valarr, a silent question.

The young prince felt heat rise beneath his collar and was faintly annoyed at how easily his father could see through him. He excused himself from Lord Ashford with a quick thanks and a courteous nod before crossing to the Royal table. He was careful to move as though he'd always intended it, but in truth his mind was stuck thinking of only one thing.

Mercifully, his father waiting until he was within the shelter of the table before he spoke. "You rode well, even with your mind wandering."

"My mind did not wander, father." Valarr would later swear on the Seven that he did not roll his eyes like a child that did not get their way.

Baelor hummed, completely unconviced, and took a slow drink of wine. "If you say so." Valarr stayed quiet, refusing the tease. He would not be dragged into boyish fluster with half the Realm in earshot. "Lord Ashford looked pleased with you. Did you praise his daughter's nameday, or interrogate him about his guests?"

Valarr met his father's eyes. There was only quiet amusement to be found in them; he had always been observant, especially when it came to his boys. One of his more infuriating qualities, Valarr decided in that moment.

"I spoke with him," Valarr said evenly.

"And?" Baelor asked, gesturing his right hand outwards.

The young prince's jaw tightened before he spoke, quieter now. "He says she is shy and doesn't take well to the usual sort of attention."

"A fair and sensible trait to have." Baelor nodded his head.

His fingers curled once against the edge of the table. "Men keep pressing themselves upon her as if pestering is a virtue."

His father regarded him for a long moment. "That displeases you."

"It is unseemly." Valarr stated firmly.

The elder prince's eyes warmed. "Yes, it is. Though, you seem to be considering your options to rectify it." There was no accusation in Baelor's tone, only a kind of gentle, knowing prodding that would've been unbearable had it come from anyone else. "You look as though you're weighing a campaign."

He let out a slow breath through his nose. "I am weighing how to speak to her without making her wish herself back in the stands."

"If she is as Ashford says, then do not make a spectacle of it. That is not your nature anyway. She won't be won by grand gestures." Valarr's throat tightened. He had heard his father speak of it before, in quieter moments: not only duty but the rare, stubborn hope of finding one who makes their world feel less like a board of carved pieces.

The one, Baelor had called it once, with a softness that had made Valarr look away, for he knew the man was thinking of his late wife.

"You have always spoken as if such a thing is real, a match made from interest." Valarr said, and could not keep the faint edge from his tone.

Baelor's smile was small. "It is. Rarely. And not always kindly. But yes, it can be found. Once you do find it, you must take it with both hands and don't let go for anything."

Valarr did not know this girl who had caught his eye, not truly. But it seems that something in him had stubbornly decided that this was not acceptable, that he at least needed to try even if nothing would come from it.

"Then I will speak to her properly, as a man with honour should." Baelor inclined his head, a wordless permission.

His mind was already moving, assembling pieces. A crowded tent simply would not do.

He would probably have to catch her outside, with a chaperone near enough to satisfy propriety but far enough to allow breath. She seemed like the type of woman who would enjoy stargazing or a simple wander to catch some air. He smoothed his sleeve once as if the motion could settle the restless energy in him.

The light of the morning came cool and pale, the kind of chill that made breath visible. The camp was quieter than it had been the night previously, at such an early time the drunken lords from the previous night are still sleeping off their cups.

Valarr dressed without fuss, no heavy riding armour yet, only soft apparel fit for a prince of the realm. His two-toned hair was faintly damp when he stepped from his lodgings, and the air woke him more sharply.

A single guard shadowed him at a respectful distance as he walked as if he had nowhere in particular to be, greeting a knight here and there. He paused by the practice yard long enough to seem purposeful.

In truth, he was hunting for a coincidence. He'd heard it from a squire the night before as idle chatter that she likes to take early morning walks to help her breathe. It wasn't meant to be significant but the prince had taken it as instruction.

He walked the paths on the edges of the camp where the paths were widest but kept his pace unhurried. It took an hour before his plan came to fruition. She was coming along the path between the outer tents, a cloak pulled close to hold off the chill. A maid walked a respectful few steps behind with her hands tucked into her sleeves.

She looked less braced than she had at the feast. More alive or more herself if it were even possible for Valarr who had never spoken to the Lady before to discern that.

Calling for her across the path would be a boyish thing to do, so he simply altered his course, casual, so that their paths would meet naturally.

Perfectly innocent, he told himself.

She noticed him when he was a few metres away. Her pace faltered slightly, from shock most likely, but she did not stop entirely. She dipped into a curtsy, quick, neat and perfect. "My Prince." Her maid followed in kind.

Valarr inclined his head in return, with what he hoped was a kind smile, offering her the respect her station deserved and perhaps a little extra. "My Lady."

A beat of silence followed, only filled by the soft rustle of leaves on the wind. Valarr had rehearsed this, once or twice, in the privacy of his own thoughts. All he had to do was give a small greeting, make conversation about the weather, maybe ask about how her family was doing. Something that let her reply without pressure of being judged, especially by a prince.

Instead what left his mouth was something like this.

"I saw you yesterday." He froze as soon as the words lingered in the air. Her brows lifted as though she did not expect him to be so forward, in truth neither did he.

She did not look put off though she looked as though she might ask a nervous question. Valarr cleared his throat at once, moving as swiftly as he would have to correct poor posture in a spar. "In the stands," he added much too quickly. "I mean, I noticed you in the stands."

That did not sound any better.

He felt his ears warm beneath his hair and cursed himself silently. Then, to his immense relief, the corner of her mouth turned as if she was trying not to smile. The prince had no way of knowing but she had realised after he continued that he meant nothing by his odd words, though his haste to rectify himself amused her.

"As opposed to... where else?" She asked, softly enough that it felt like a secret. Valarr blinked, then a small smile escaped him too. "Yes," he admitted, the two of them had never met prior to this of course and she had noticed his avid attention on her. "That is fair."

Her eyes flicked up and she held his gaze for a second longer before looking to his left, though he knew there was nothing there to look at. That was another thing that struck him, she did not seem to hold eye contact. Even with her father, though she did hold it longer then.

"It's quite alright. I wished to speak to you as well," Her words were careful but sincere. Valarr perked up at their content. "To congratulate you." She continued. "You rode very well."

The praise landed strangely, not like cheers from a large crowd did or flattery offered at court. This was honest.

"Thank you, my Lady. Frankly, I had thought my focus might have faltered."

Her eyes landed back on his and there may have been the urge to retreat there but she did not fall silent. She then looked towards the stables, and her voice warmed a fraction as she spoke. "Your horse is beautiful. Well bred, I imagine."

So she does like horses, Valarr's expression softened without his permission. "She is," he agreed. "She knows it as well, which is her greatest flaw."

His words earned him a small sound, half laugh, half breath, as if she had not expected a prince to speak of a horse of all things with affection.

"You like horses." Valarr said, mostly a statement but with the option to answer as a question, to offer her an easier path.

She nodded once. "Yes. Though, I've been told I have an affinity for most animals. I would have to agree."

Valarr took the opening carefully, mindful of Ashford's counsel. "Do you ride?"

Her fingers tightened briefly at the edge of her cloak. "Sometimes," She admitted, and then with more certainty. "Not as often as I'd like."

Valarr didn't pounce on it the wat other men might've, he did not turn it into a challenge, or an offer, or a boast about what he could do to provide or fix it. He simply nodded. "I understand that, the life of a noble man, or woman, isn't always kind to private habits. Too many opinions on what others should or should not do as well." He didn't need to point out that riding wasn't always considered a 'ladylike' activity, she'd likely been told that numerous times over in her life.

When Valarr looked back at her, he met her assessing gaze. Somewhat surprised he had labelled it so plainly. Other men she'd met had pretended they did not see the pressure at all, or worse, they acted as though the pressure was a compliment.

Valarr was a prince, pressure was probably his oldest companion she thought to himself. He was the heir of the heir. He was expected to be the perfect prince by many, and he withstood this even though he was a man. Princes didn't have to play by the rules the same way princesses do, and yet Valarr seemed to play by them anyway.

Her shoulders eased a fraction and her hands loosened their grip on her cloak. The maid behind her remained a respectful distance but the Lady no longer looked as though she were bracing for a blow from the conversation alone.

"When you do ride, what do you prefer? A fast horse, or a steady one?" Valarr asked with a gentle tone.

Her eyes shifted towards the stables as if she were envisaging the horse held inside, comparing their traits. "Steady." She ultimately decided. "Fast can be thrilling, yes, but that requires trust. Steady is honest, and safer."

Valarr gazed at her side profile. "You sound as though you've already thought about it."

"I think about most things," she admitted, and there was a hint of self-consciousness in the way she spoke, as if it were a flaw she'd been teased for. The she added, quickly. "Too much, sometimes."

He shook his head once. "It isn't too much, as long as it does not tire you."

She continued her slow pace, and wordlessly Valarr followed alongside, she took a glance at him as though weighing whether he was being truthful.

After another few steps, she spoke again, voice almost casual, perhaps too casual, as if she were trying to make her voice so small it would not sting if it landed poorly. "I was... a little nervous," she told him.

"Because of me?"

Her mouth tightened faintly, and looked down at the path ahead of them. "Not of you." she said. "Not truly." There was a pause before she continued. "Rumours travel far," She went on, lighter now. "Even to those who try not to listen."

Valarr's expression went still in a way that was practiced and automatic, she glanced up at him, catching the shift, and hurried to add on before he could take offence.

"About your cousin," she did not need to specify who, Aerion. "And... Prince Daeron, as well. He was-" she hesitated, choosing her words. "-unpredictable last night."

Meaning he was acting like a drunken fool. No surprise there. Valarr's jaw tightened, not at what she was saying of course, but the truth of it. He had spent years learning how to make other people's (usually his cousins) disasters appear smaller than they were. There was no point in pretending to her now.

"You needn't dress it so kindly," he said, looking down at his shoes. "He was drunk."

She showed some surprise at his plainness. It seemed to reassure her rather than unsettle her. "And Aerion..." she added, so quietly as though simply saying the name too loudly would summon trouble. "I had only heard things but my father prefers we keep our distance from... those that might think themselves above consequence."

"A sensible preference," Valarr said grimly, recounting his interactions with his cousin. "That is wise." She looked into his eyes for longer this time. She'd expected anger or at least irritation for her words and found none. "Aerion enjoys being talked about. Rumours are a kind of worship to him, even when it is unflattering. It's best not to feed it if possible."

Her lips pressed together. "And you?"

"Me?" Valarr felt his brows raise.

She tilted her head slightly, the gesture hesitant and small but brave nonetheless. "You are of the same blood." she said carefully. "People like to pretend that blood is destiny."

Something in his chest twisted, not pain exactly but an old irritation at being compared to someone else's sins. He didn't let it show as the irritation was not truly aimed at her. She was right to be hesitant. Targaryens had a record for each generation being worse than the last, it couldn't be denied that being of the dragon's blood seemed to doom them all.

Despite all the words he wished to say he kept it simple. "It isn't. I am more like my father than my cousins."

She nodded in response. That made sense afterall, Baelor was his father. Baelor had raised him. Baelor was good.

"Truthfully, I had worried you might share their sentiments. Though, I think I was wrong." Valarr focused on the latter of her speech.

"And now?" He asked, softly.

Her cheeks warmed faintly, and she looked away so that he could not witness the redness. "Now, I can see..." She searched for the appropriate word, then decided to say the first thing that came to mind. "You are nicer."

The prince blinked, before a small startled laugh left his lips. "Nicer." It might not've been what he was expecting but he'd take it.

She looked back at him, mistaking his tone and thinking that he'd taken offence or that she had misstepped. "I only- I mean it as a compliment, My Prince. You seem... more princely."

"More princely," Valarr repeated, there was amusement in his tone but also something far softer. "Than my cousins." Who are princes, he didn't need to add.

She winced. "I should not have said that."

Valarr shook his head slowly. "No, it's alright. I prefer honestly, truly."

The tension in her shoulders eased, and she exhaled a breath she may not have realised she was holding.

"I'm glad I've been able to speak to you. I was worried I might've made you uncomfortable." She gave a small, helpless shrug that Valarr could only describe as endearing.

"You did." She stated, before raising her hand and holding her thumb and index finger a small distance apart. "About this much." She added, now smiling wider with a teasing lilt. Her smile was more open, and just for a moment it changed her whole face. Then her expression calmed. "I am glad you spoke to me as well. It's been easier than I expected."

Valarr's chest loosened at her admission. He was careful not to stride ahead in his eagerness. "I am glad." He said, and meant it.

They walked a few more steps in quiet. Valarr let the silence exist without rushing to fill it, and she did not retreat into it the way she might have earlier. That alone felt like a kind of progress.

He glanced back, subtly.

Her maid remained at a respectful distance, as a maid ought, gaze lowered and dutiful. She seemed far more relaxed now, as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. His guard, too, had slowed, lingering near a tent line as though he had found something of interest in the grass. Far enough away that words would blur.

He cleared his throat, suddenly aware that what he was about to ask was, by all reasonable measures, ridiculous.

"My lady," he began, then paused.

Her brows lifted slightly. "Yes?"

Valarr looked ahead at the path as though it might offer him courage. "When we are... in company," he said carefully, "it is proper that you call me my prince or Your Highness. I understand that."

She nodded once, calm, attentive.

"But-" Valarr hesitated, the smallest fracture in his composure. He recovered quickly. "But when we are not in company, when it is quiet, as it is now… would you be willing to call me by my name?"

Her steps slowed a fraction. Valarr immediately regretted the phrasing. It sounded too intimate. Too forward. Too much like a claim. Fuck, he thought to himself.

He added quickly, voice gentler, attempting to make it smaller so it would not frighten her. "Only if you wish to. Only when we are alone-" he corrected himself at once, remembering the maid behind her, the guard in the distance, propriety like a net between them. "-when we are private. When it would not put you at risk of tongues wagging."

She stopped walking entirely for a heartbeat, then took another step, slower now, as if she needed the movement to think. Valarr kept his eyes on the path, trying to give her the room to answer without feeling pinned beneath his gaze.

When she finally spoke, it was soft, almost careful. "Valarr," she said, as if trying the sound.

His name, in her voice, did something unreasonable to him. He turned his head before he meant to, and caught her looking at him, nervous, curious, gauging his reaction.

"It suits you," she added, quieter. "Better than 'my prince.' I think."

Valarr let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but not quite. "Good," he managed. "Because 'my prince' makes me feel as though I am being scolded by my father."

Her eyes widened, then she let out a small sound clearly not expecting him to say anything so... ordinary.

"It is not meant as a scolding," she said, amused now.

"I know," Valarr replied, the corner of his mouth lifting. "But it is difficult to be at ease when everyone is reminding you what you are."

The amusement in her expression softened into something thoughtful. She looked down at her hands, tucked into her cloak, then back up again with a little more courage than before.

"And what are you," she asked, quietly, "when no one is reminding you?"

Valarr felt the question land like the first touch of a hand, light, but meaningful.

For a moment he considered giving her something witty. Something princely. Instead, he answered simply.

"A man who likes a black horse too much," he said, and then, because he could not resist, "and who makes foolish plans to walk the same path as a lady who prefers the morning."

Her cheeks warmed again. She ducked her head, but the smile returned, unmistakable now.

"I thought it was a coincidence," she said, teasing.

"It was," Valarr replied smoothly. "A perfectly innocent one."

She laughed softly, and the sound was quiet enough not to carry, but it warmed him more than the morning sun ever could.

They continued walking, the path narrowing again between tents. A sleepy squire shuffled by in the opposite direction, rubbing at his eyes; Valarr offered him a brief nod, and the boy hurried past as if chased by dragons.

When they were alone again, Valarr spoke.

"And what should I call you?" he asked. "May I use your name as well?"

Her breath caught, just slightly, and her gaze flicked toward her maid behind her, then back to him.

"Yes," she said honestly. "Though only when we are in private."

Valarr's answer came quickly. "Of course." It felt like a small trust being placed into his hands, light as a feather and just as easy to harm if he grasped too tightly.

They walked a little farther with the camp slowly waking around them. Valarr kept his pace, careful not to crowd her, and careful not to look too pleased with himself.

He miserably failed at the latter.

He could feel it in the way his mouth kept threatening to curve into a smile, in the way his thoughts kept skipping ahead. She had said yes.

It was ridiculous, a tiny victory but it was also the most hope he'd felt in longer than he cared to admit.

They were nearing the point where she would inevitably have to turn back and Valarr would need to properly prepare for the day ahead. He didn't want to steal more of her morning or press to hard so he stopped briefly at the end of their walk.

Her name came from his mouth before he could hold it back. She turned to face him, expression a little shy but warm as well. "Yes, Valarr?" She asked, and the fact that she'd used his name without being prompted made his chest tighten. He hoped it didn't show.

"I should let you go. Your father must be looking for you."

"Yes. I should return."

"I am glad," Valarr said, choosing the words with care. "that you did not find me as dreadful as you feared."

Her lips parted, then her smile returned, small and genuine. "You're not dreadful at all." She said. "Perhaps, a little odd."

Valarr huffed a quiet laugh. "Odd?"

"Only a little." She smiled wider once more. "Besides, being odd is good. It makes you unique. Unforgettable."

Unforgettable. Valarr's heart skipped a few beats. That was good... right? That was promising.

"I will treasure it," He promised solemnly, to cover his true feelings, the amusement in her eyes brightened for a heartbeat. "If you walk again tomorrow morning," his tone lighter, "I will not pretend I am above another coincidence."

She nodded once. "Then perhaps... I will take the same path."

He bowed his head. "I will be grateful for my good fortune."

"Have a good day, Valarr." She finished softly.

"Have a good day," he replied and then because her maid was drawing closer. "My Lady."

She gave him one last look, then turned and continued on, cloak brushing dew from the grass.

Valarr stood where he was until she disappeared from sight. He turned to leave and touched two fingers to his mouth, as if to keep the smile from escaping too openly, he walked as if he had not just been unmade by a single conversation.

He had no way of knowing that she'd gone straight back to her private lodgings, avoiding her father completely, and that the instant she was alone she flung herself face-first into her pillow to muffle a delighted squeal while kicking her legs like a girl half her age.

Utterly and hopelessly charmed.

This might be a multiple part series.

Oscar Morgan, you have bewitched me body and soul. I've literally been working on this since seeing him for the first time. He slayed his miniscule amount of screentime and lines.